Panem's Games
by RinaCath
Summary: Panem rose, and the countries of the world fell. With the survivors wandering the Districts separated and alone, will they ever return to power, or will this year's Hunger Games mark the official end of the reign of the countries? For aph and/OR HG fans
1. Prologue

**About the sequel to SoT… It's coming. It just ended up being written… backwards… Whatever, it's coming, just be patient, and in the mean-time, look, a random story!**

**So I saw a few Hunger Games - APH crossovers but I couldn't find any that weren't all-human, and where's the fun in that? I want a Panem character, damnit!**

**I know the audience for both of these fandom's is probably small but I know you exist and, really, if you like one fandom you can probably adjust to the other.**

**For Hunger Games Fans:**

**There are characters that are also countries. There, you've got the gist of Hetalia.**

**For APH fans:**

**Hunger Games is similar to Battle Royal, I've been told. 12 Districts, one Capitol, every year there are the 'Hunger Games', in which one boy and one girl tribute from each District are put in a big arena and told to kill each other until there's just one left. That's the abridged version, if you want to know more you can look it up on Wikipedia, they have a good article on it.**

**Takes place after Catching Fire. The escape they made from the arena was played off as a giant accident, and a tribute from one of the other Districts 'won', mmk?**

**Uh.. Catching Fire spoilers? Did I not mention that…?**

**I don't own Hetalia or Hunger Games.**

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_Long ago, before the time of Panem, the world was filled with countries as rich and diverse as the people who lived in them. It was said, in whispered rumors and long-lived folk-tales, that the countries rose and fell in that time were governed by men and women who looked and seemed much like anyone else, but who stood the test of time much longer than any human. These people represented their country with honor and vigor, and when their countries were damaged, they felt pain, and when their countries flourished, as did they. This time of plenty lasted for centuries, before a new member came to join their ranks._

_He was kind and polite. He gained the favor of his neighbors, of his fellow countries. They adored him. And when they least suspected it, he attacked. The man was named Panem._

_The Capitol rose. And with it came the downfall of the beautiful nations, the unity into one strong creation that none could destroy. The men and women of the countries tried, and when their comrades fell they wept, until none were left to mourn. The legends of the brave countries teetered out, and died, and with them, it is said, their powerful representatives fell as well._

_But some are hopeful. Some say that creatures of such strength could never die. Some say they wander the districts, waiting for their chance to rise again, to destroy Panem and bring back the time of peace they once watched over._

_If there is one thing the citizens of the districts know more than anything else, it is that Panem is a crushing place. Even the great beings that once ruled the Earth by now must have been left without a single hope or dream._

_Panem watches carefully over his domain, not knowing whether to believe these rumors or not. He is prepared, should they show themselves, but so far, all has been quiet. Perhaps the time of the countries really has ended._

_But some believe they will rise again._

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**Just a Prologue. Dun dun dun. I'm not going to tell you the tributes up front because WHERE WOULD THE FUN BE IN THAT?**


	2. All That's Left

**Here we meet the countries and find out what Districts they ended up hiding in. The Districts were chosen at random using dice.**

**I looked up the products and information on the Districts but apparently most of them don't have much information on them, so…**

**You can kind of figure it out, but the countries are not aware of each other's existence. They all think they're the last of the countries around, and they're not completely sure why they still exist (except for maybe Prussia, who's a bit used to it…)**

**They're masquerading as humans, and trying to hide from Panem. We all know more or less what's going to happen but pretend to be surprised by the end of this chapter, okay? I'm trying to make it as dramatic and unexpected as possible…**

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_**District 1**_

Belarus was not a fan of the products made in District 1 of Panem. Soft silks and fragrant soaps, while easier on the hands than some of the other industries, were useless. She'd rather be in a powerful industry, like coal mining. But District 12 was poor and weak, and here she had a chance to join in with the Careers training for the games.

She was too old to be chosen for the games, of course. She almost wished she wasn't, so have a chance to visit the Capitol and maybe, just maybe, come face to face with the bastard Panem who was responsible for the destruction of her own country. For her brother's death.

Belarus gritted her teeth and shuffled forward with the rest of the citizens of District 1, some eager-faced for the Reaping, others terrified. A small boy bumped into her from behind.

"Watch where you're going!" she hissed, grabbing the boy by the collar. He stuttered out an apology, eyes wide. Belarus remembered the little Baltic boy that had always been a part of Russia's house and dropped him miserably. She even missed the Baltic States, how pathetic was that?

"Hey, what's your problem, lady?" a harsh voice called out. A hand landed on her shoulder.

Belarus knocked it away angrily. "Get off me." she growled.

"Don't pick on my little brother then!" a boy, maybe eighteen, towered over her. A Career, from the looks of him.

"I'll do what I want." she scoffed, unafraid. In fact, his thick stature and rough voice made her miss Russia all then more.

"You stay away from him then. Don't go picking on little kids just because you're scared of the Reaping." the boy snapped.

"I'm not scared of anything." Belarus told him coldly. "If you don't mind, I'd like to get to the Reaping before it starts."

The boy scowled at her and walked off, little brother clinging to his hand. As they disapeared into the crowd, the little boy glanced back at her, eyes wide.

He really did look like Latvia.

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_**District 2**_

Italy shivered as he walked down the warm streets of District 2. People pushed him aside eagerly, rushing for the Reaping. Italy hated going, watching children, children that could easily have been him under harsher circumstances, walk up to the stage, knowing they'd just been given a death sentence... It was so wrong to kill children like this. Italy was sure even Germany, as coarse and detached as he was, would agree something so horrible was out of line.

Italy's eyes filled with tears at the thought of Germany. He had never been alone in his life. Friendless, maybe, but never _alone_. There had always been his Granddad, or his brother, or Holy Rome, or even Austria and Hungary, and whether they were kind or not, they had been _someone_.

No one to come home to. No one to talk with. He couldn't even make friends with any of the humans swarming around him because eventually they'd notice he hadn't been aging and bring up difficult questions.

Even Italy himself wasn't sure how to answer most of them. Why would he still exist, with his country was destroyed?

Maybe he shouldn't complain. He could be dead, like his friends, like his brother… Italy felt tears streak down his face. Several people around him shot him annoyed or disgusted looks but said nothing, just pushed him out of their way when he was too slow to move.

He missed Germany.

_**

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District 3**_

Switzerland kept Liechtenstein's hand clamped tight in his, as he always did around the time of the Reaping. As soon as he could he'd passed them both off as nineteen, to keep their names out of the annual life-or-death lottery. Liechtenstein's gentle face and small stature hadn't helped, but in the end he'd managed it. Even so, every Reaping he held his breath in case her name had worked it's way back into the great glass ball with all the other girls'.

He missed he weight of a gun on his hip. He felt naked without it. And how was he supposed to protect his little sister from the brutes of Panem without so much as a slingshot?

"Vash?" Liechtenstein leaned in close and whispered his human name for the sake of the citizens pressing close on all sides.

"What is it?" he muttered back, trying to keep pace with the crowd so they wouldn't be trampled.

"Don't worry. We're not in the Reaping this year." She smiled at him. "You did good. No one knows we're younger than eighteen-"

"Hush!" he quieted her quickly, looking around to be sure no one had heard. A few people glanced at him curiously but seemed unbothered. It had been hard enough that their physical bodies were so young. Having to fake their _fake_ age was difficult and annoying.

Though he'd never admit it, it would be nice to have another country around for help. Someone else to rely on… But at least he and Liechtenstein had managed to survive - somehow - and were together. They could have been stranded in different Districts, alone and part of the Reaping year after year…

"We'll be okay." Liechtenstein murmured to him. "I know it."

Switzerland really wanted to believe that.

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District 4_**

Russia was head and shoulders above the rest of the population of District 4. They gave him a decent berth, creating a little bubble of space around him. He'd been used to it back in the days before Panem. Now it just depressed him.

The Reaping was….interesting. The guards usually kept far away from him but he still went every year, ever since Panem had created the cruel game. He watched shivering children that made him miss his Baltic States say goodbye to their family and leave to be dressed up and brutally murdered by other shivering children. The whole thing was oddly depressing and brought him back the harder memories of the Great Purge and World Wars…

Then there were the strong 'Career' children, who volunteered to kill and grinned like maniacs when they stood before their District. Their personalities reminded him of countries like Prussia or America, now long dead…

But, it was true, right now he'd even be pleased to see the bright blue eyes and eccentric cowlick of America. It would mean he wasn't quite so alone, wasn't quite so lost among this sea of humans.

District 4 was a fishing district, and while it meant Russia was well fed most of the time, it was also boring, tedious work. He kept it up only because otherwise the district guards would show up on his doorstep.

A family walked by, little children clinging fearfully to their parents' hands. One boy looked no older than twelve, another maybe fifteen. They would both be in the Reaping this year. Russia looked down at the little children, scrawny despite a good nutrition from the wealth of the sea they dragged in each year.

And what if someone had been threatening such things on his precious Soviet Union? What if someone had come to his home and told him they were taking his Baltic States away to their death? How could he ever let that happen?

He'd been such a powerful country, such a feared force to be reckoned with. The creator of communism, master of armies feared by all, valiant opponent to America and his capitalist ways… Now he was here watching children die and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Russia was not a fan of murdering children. He'd always harbored a soft spot for them, even his own Latvia, though he was sure he'd scared the poor boy half to death more than once. This… this was unspeakable. Destroying armies, villages, countries… but _children_? Sending _children_ away to fight to the death? Who would think up such a thing?

And Russia knew immediately who that someone was. The one person who could make him long for even the companionship of America.

Panem.

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District 5**_

District 5 was not well known for winning any of the games, nor for producing anything worth much interest. It was a dull, boring place and very much not to Prussia's liking.

_Of all the places to end up, I have to get stuck with one of the most boring, pointless… unawesome Districts…_

He folded his hands behind his head and walked slowly at the edge of the growing crowd. The Reaping bothered him every year, because every year some tribute reminded him of Germany. Maybe one had his blond hair, or another his blue eyes. Maybe it was just the way he moved. Something made him think of his dead little brother and of what it would be like to watch him take his place on the crude, harsh stage and stand before all of Panem, whether in person or on camera, and know he was going to die.

Of course, if Germany _had_ been in the games, he'd probably make it out alive. No one who could start two World Wars would ever be brought down by a bunch of scared little kids. But when he thought of Germany lately, that's all he saw. A scared little kid, like he'd been when he'd first taken the name Germany.

"Are you still moping? You're like this every year, you're going to run into someone, you know."

Prussia smiled and dropped his arms. It could have been worse. He could have been stuck in Panem until his unnaturally long life was cut short alone, forced to wander the streets of District 5 by himself, without even the forced company of his brother. Hungary punched him on the arm.

"What? I'm not moping, stop hitting me!" he grinned, swiping back at her and missing completely. Hungary laughed.

"You are so. Come on, it's depressing enough with all these starving kids waiting to be called to the Hunger Games, you're not even in the Reaping and you look worse than they do." she teased him.

"Oh come on, I'm pretty sure that last kid we passed was about to wet himself." Prussia rolled his eyes.

Maybe it was harsh of them to joke about the children who might not even be alive in a few days time, but it was the only way to relieve the stress of the Reaping. They weren't the only ones. Around them, several others their age, giddy from their excitement at not having their names in the great glass balls this year, were jumping around and laughing, much to the amusement of the district guards.

Prussia's smile faded again. Hungary sighed and stopped trying to get him back into his usual impossibly carefree mood. His heart just wasn't in it, not on the Reaping Day.

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District 6**_

Japan kept far back from the vicious crowds all eager to get the Reaping before it started. It was nearly time for the first slip of paper to be pulled from the glass balls on their frightening pine stage, wasn't it?

Japan longed for the sounds of the ocean or the smell of his home, but it had been destroyed a long time ago. Now his only comfort was the slim man walking quietly at his side.

China had found Japan soon after most of Asia had fallen to Panem's forces. They'd escaped together only to be trapped in one of Panem's Districts, forced to obey the twisted laws of a country they'd once befriended. Now he shouted for his children's blood from the very highest pile of gold in his cushy, warm Capitol. A twisted world for a twisted ruler, truly.

The two Asians were quiet for the most part, resolved to their futures of walking the harsh streets of District 6 for the rest of their lives, however long those might be.

Japan couldn't help but remember better times, back before he'd even heard of a country called Panem. Before there was such a thing as Districts or the Reaping or the Hunger Games.

How could any country hurt his own people like this? It had been done before, yes, but never to this extent, never to this mass-punishment… Panem had no right to call himself a country. The people were terrified and beaten down and starved… was there an ounce a loyalty among any of them? What was a country without his people?

The answer hurt. A country without his people was all that Japan and China had been reduced to.

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District 7**_

Germany didn't even bother to change from his work clothes, covered in dirt and sweat though they might be. The guards shot him annoyed looks but people were never quick to confront anyone with an axe over his shoulder.

The fancier chainsaws and tree-fellers were for Capitol employees. Germany was expected to do his part in the lumber industry with nothing more than a medieval tool and brute strength.

And that was fine with him. Logs were a suitable substitute for Panem's head for now.

He'd been one of the last countries standing when Panem had shown his true colors. Italy had been one of the first to fall.

A hundred years of guilt had caught up with him. He should have been able to protect him, should have been able to keep his promise.

A hundred years ago, he'd sworn he'd rise again, he'd get revenge on the bastard Panem for Italy and his brother and everyone who'd fallen in the vast uprising. So many countries dead, mutilated, destroyed…

His hands tightened on the handle of the axe. He'd done some nasty things in his time, but this… And now the Reaping. It was like Panem was just shoving his victory in Germany's face.

"_I took your land and your friends… now watch me kill your people one by one!"_

Germany spat on the ground kept walking with the rest of the crowd, a good two feet between him and anyone else.

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District 8**_

England's hand was firm around Sealand's wrist. A hundred years in the Reaping and he'd managed to stay out of it every year… It was true his name was only in it once, but how lucky could he possibly stay?

Though most of the time Sealand tried to keep his distance from England in their tiny, two-bedroom house, during the Reaping his distain from England seemed to melt away. He was just a scared little boy who didn't want his name pulled to be taken away for the Hunger Games.

England honestly wasn't sure how well Sealand might do in the games. He was a little more durable than any of the other humans, but he was still only twelve years old physically. Compared to the bulky Careers from the stronger Districts…. Sealand was better off as far from Panem's sick games as possible.

They were near the front of the crowd. Sealand had a good grip on his trousers, and England could feel him shaking, even though he was trying to hide it.

At least he was around to make sure Sealand was alright. At least he wasn't doomed to walk the streets of District 8 completely alone.

England looked down at Sealand's sandy blond hair and remembered another little boy who used to cling to him when he was scared…

America had been fighting alongside England when he'd been shot down. He'd never forget that night, when America's country had slipped into Panem's control and America had ceased to exist…

He'd certainly never let the same thing happen to Sealand. At least Sealand had been spared the torment of seeing his country fall. His little fort in English waters was still independent, though abandoned. Perhaps he really was still a country… Not some empty shell of one like England.

The crowd quieted as the representative from the Capitol stepped onto the stage.

"Welcome to the hundredth annual Hunger Games!" he shouted, as if this were a wonderful event, and in the Capitol it probably was, with Panem sitting and watching his twisted country jump through hoops for-

"We're very excited for the start of the fourth Quarter Quell! This is really an amazing event, one hundred years of Hunger Games… I hope you're as excited as I am!"

Quite. He'd be very excited to take Panem's Hunger Games and shove them right up his fat-

"We turn to our great President Snow to tell us the twist for this year's Hunger Games!" He waved an exuberant hand at the great screen behind him, where 'President Snow's' face appeared in perfect, crystalline detail.

England's hand tightened on Sealand's wrist.

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District 9**_

Spain watched from the massive crowd in District 9 as Panem, masquerading as 'President Snow', smiled down at them all through the cameras and screens.

"Welcome to the fourth Quarter Quell of Panem!" he called out. "I'm sure you're just as excited as I am to find out what new, dramatic twist this year's Hunger Games will have!"

_Yes, excited, just like you were excited to stab all of us in the back, _President Snow_, so very excited…_ Spain's thoughts reduced to angry, Spanish cursing.

"As you know, traditionally for the Hunger Games…" Panem started off. Spain was only half-listening. Without his name in the glass balls on the stage now he couldn't really drag himself away from self-pity and grief over his Romano…

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District 10**_

Denmark stayed at the edge of the crowd, finding that a large group of terrified people did not smell their best after a long day of working with livestock. He couldn't really care that much about the Hunger Games or Panem's stupid Quarter Quell. If he wanted to go murdering children, fine, but he shouldn't make him watch.

The loose leather clothes he wore felt unnatural, even after a century in them. He missed his own black and red, and even more than that his axe…

"Traditionally for the Hunger Games," Panem called out through the slick screen that was the only thing in the whole damn District that was anywhere near clean, "two tributes from each District are called, one boy, one girl, between the ages of twelve and eighteen."

_Uh huh_. Denmark rolled his eyes and imagined exactly what he would do with Panem's face should the man be standing before him in person instead of on his stupid giant screen…

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District 11**_

Romano kept up his usual sneer as he watched Panem masquerade himself as his own president. Only the idiots in the Capitol would fail to realize that every one of their presidents had looked identical. Of course, these were the same people that pledged their loyalty to said idiot, so…

Romano was certainly not going to pay attention to him. He'd be at home now, sulking in private, if it weren't for the damn guards posted at the edges of the crowd. He spotted a guard whose baton was very familiar with the back of his head and pushed his way deeper into the crowd. The people around him were only too eager to get out of his way. A combination of fear for the Reaping and Romano's scowl made them skittish enough to move without much complaint.

"During a Quarter Quell, these rules are usually adjusted to make for a more entertaining show in celebration of another twenty-five years of successful Hunger Games…"

Romano glared at Panem, trying his best not to think about everything that had happened a hundred years ago now, about everyone he'd lost, like his brother or Spain…

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District 12**_

America couldn't help but remind himself that he was standing on his own old land as he made his way to the center of a crowd of what had, a hundred years ago, been his people. Beside him, Canada looked up at the screen with wide eyes, chewing his lip anxiously.

America turned up to watch Panem pull the card from its spot in the box of Quarter Quell events. He hated the Hunger Games with a passion. A hero ought to be able to do something to save _children_, shouldn't he?

Not that he hadn't tried. The guards of District 12 were more lenient than most, but they were still _very_ familiar with America.

"What do you think it is this year?" Canada whispered miserably. Around them it was dead silent, as the citizens of District 12 waited to hear what horrors would befall their children over the next few weeks. District 12 hadn't had a winner since Katniss and Peeta, and after they had died in the last Quarter Quell… District 12 didn't have very much luck in the Hunger Games.

"Something stupid and horrible." America muttered back. He was thankful every year that he and Canada were too old for Panem's stupid torture, but seeing children take their places was nearly as hard.

"This year for the Hunger Games, instead of the traditional twelve to eighteen age range, the tributes will be chosen from all District citizens aged nineteen to twenty-nine!"

Panic erupted in District 12.

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**For APH fans:**

**Katniss and Peeta were the tributes from District 12 in the Quarter Quells that the Hunger Games centers around. They both won, by outsmarting the Capitol (which made a lot of powerful people very unhappy). In the Quarter Quell, which sent them _back _after they'd already won, they escaped. I'm assuming the Capitol played it off as an accident.**

**Oh, and a Quarter Quell happens every 25 years. It's some special additional thing they add to the Hunger Games. Yay.**

**I feel like I should mention that I ended up rolling for the Districts three times (I'm that disorganized) and every time, America rolled District 12. Fate is trying to tell us something, and I'm not going to argue with it XD.**

**I know Japan, Denmark, and Spain were terrible, but I'm very bad at writing them. Spain I wanted in it, Japan, I figured one of them ought to be an Asian and he worked best (what with his Axis connections…), Denmark, I figured **_**someone**_** had to be Nordic and I know next to nothing about the Nordics, I just like Denmark best, so he's probably horribly ooc. I based his personality on Prussia's… XD don't kill me.**

**Can you tell I started to run out of steam around District 6? Most chapters won't have ALL of them.. I just needed to establish who was where with who.**

**Well, review, let me know if you're totally confused or like it or whatever… Or just fav/sub, I get the message XD. And tell your APH/HG fan friends to read it, because I know this is a small audience and I'm doing the best I can to make it attractive and understandable to both sides.**

**You guys know when I'm on a roll I update fast, so see you soon ;3**


	3. The Reaping

**Honestly I thought like two people would even read this. Six people reviewed and DAMNIT THAT'S GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME (especially since like only 48 people actually viewed the story…).**

**SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. Well it took long by my standards and anyone who's waiting for SoT shut up no one likes you I'm working on it. I started school (aurrggguh) and have college classes and AP classes (AUURRGGGUH) but I'll try really, really hard to update regularly… Shall we start with once a week…? Every Friday it is then. **

**Oh, and I really, really hope this is the last chapter I'll do that has everyone's pov in it, it's EXHAUSTING.**

**And I know the Quarter Quell is announced **_**before**_** the Reaping, but that would mean **_**another **_**boring chapter and I don't think it's that important to anyone, right?**

**AND I know usually they have it during different times due to time-zones or something like that, and they don't know who the tributes are from the other Districts but we can all accept that a developing society adjusted its rules over the past twenty-five years, can't we?**

**I know, I'm changing a lot, but it's for the better, trust me. If you think it's cheesy or Mary Sue of me or something, let me know and I'll consider re-doing it…**

**One last thing: For the life of me I couldn't figure out what you're supposed to do when two people volunteer, so I just…. made it up. We're all cool with that, right? Uh… LOOK A GERMAN KISSING AN ITALIAN! *smoke bomb***

**Don't own. (I always forget those somehow… maybe I DO own them. And maybe one day people will remember who Canada is, and maybe America will read the atmosphere, and maybe I'll actually include Gilbird in an aph Fanfic…)**

**LONG AN IS LONG.**

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_**District 1**_

Was he serious? Around Belarus, there was an uproar. People were frantic, it was as this was the last possible thing that could ever happen. The Hunger Games were for children, they simply couldn't chose an _adult_, could they?

Belarus stepped closer to the stage eagerly. If they were pulling nineteen-year-olds… Was her name really swimming in with the other pitiable humans? She had a chance to visit the Capitol, to see Panem face-to-face?

Panem was unaware of the uproar going on in District 1, and every other District, no doubt. He plowed through his speech, and the guards started using force to quiet the citizens.

"Any and all citizen of the Districts between the aforementioned ages have had their names entered once for every year past nineteen." Panem continued. "The Reaping will continue normally otherwise."

With a smile, Panem's face flickered and disappeared from the screen. The entire courtyard was silent. Everywhere, Districts were waiting, just like they were, for the name of the first tribute to be announced. District 1's representative stepped forward eagerly, reaching for the men's jar first.

There was an apprehensive feeling as his fingers dug through the slips of paper. It was usually a time of excitement for District 1, a time of celebration. The Hunger Games were just that; games.

But this unexpected twist appeared to have taken the joy right out of District 1.

The representative smiled and pulled the name free at last. Belarus didn't even hear who it was, she was so focused on the other jar, the one with her name swimming with all the other human girls… Sure it was just one, but one was enough…

She snapped out of her reprieve when she realized who it was walking up the steps to take his place on the stage.

The boy who'd snapped at her earlier, for scaring his little brother. So he was older than eighteen then, though not by much, from the looks of him… He turned and faced the crowd stonily.

"Any volunteers? Remember, the new age range applies to you too!" the representative - whose name Belarus hadn't even bothered to pay attention to - turned with his eager face to the crowd.

The silence continued. District 1 had a long history of volunteers, year after year. Now the only noise was the boy's little brother starting to cry.

The representative's smile fell a little. He hitched it up again. "Well, I guess you're going unchallenged this year, Johnny."

The boy scowled but said nothing. Belarus stopped caring about him as the representative's hand plunged into the girl's jar.

He pulled out a slip. Belarus held her breath.

"Rose Evergreen!" he called out. Belarus sagged miserably.

A scowling girl with cropped red hair stepped up to the stage. The representative turned back to the crowd.

"Any volunteers?"

The silence continued. A moment of deliberation left Belarus with a decision. She rushed forward.

"I volunteer." she said upon reaching the stage.

The representative's smile widened. "Wonderful! Any others…?" he scanned the crowd, which looked back at him blankly, as if they didn't understand the question. "I guess that just leaves you, hon. Name?"

"Natalia Arlovskaya." Belarus panted, passing Rose on the staircase. She seemed eager to get back to the crowd.

The representative turned back to the silent crowd and cameras. "Well then, here you are, the tributes for District 1 for the hundredth Hunger Games!"

Belarus gave the cameras a smile, wondering if Panem was watching her now, if he remembered who she was. If he was scared.

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_**District 2**_

Italy had kept his face covered ever since Panem had revealed that he was now in danger of participating in this year's Hunger Games.

His name was in the glass jar twice! Twice! He had horrible luck, he couldn't win anything. He peeked through his fingers as the representative of District 2 approached the boy's jar. His hand disappeared into the papers.

_Please please please not Feliciano Vargas. Please, please please please…_

The representative cleared his throat and held up the slip of paper, squinting through his glasses at it.

"And the male representative of District 2 is… Feliciano Vargas!"

Italy let out a frightened squeak. He was frozen in place, the stage was so far away, and now people were starting to look at him…

"Feliciano? Come on, boy, get up here!" the representative seemed to be trying to follow people's stares to find him. Someone poked him from behind.

He took a few shaky steps forward, pulling his hands away from his face so he wouldn't run into anyone. People cleared a path for him as he made his way up to the stage. Several of the Careers, some of them eighteen and now denied their chance to participate in the Games, glared at him as he passed. He whimpered and sped up, preferring the relative safety of the stage over the unpredictable violence of the Careers.

The representative turned him around to face the cameras when he reached the stage. "Any volunteers?"

Italy felt tears start up again in his eyes. The entire crowd was quiet.

"Well then, to the ladies!" the representative said excitedly and made his way to the other jar. A moment later, Janice Doe had taken her place next to Italy.

She was a terrifying-looking girl with glowing blue eyes that sent Italy sobbing again.

* * *

_**District 3**_

"Vash! Vash isn't that-!" Liechtenstein said excitedly.

"Hush!" Switzerland quieted her again. It was true, District 1's female tribute looked very much like Belarus, and District 2's male tribute both looked and _acted_ like Italy, but there way no way… Was Panem screwing with his head? Did he know he was still alive?

Switzerland scanned the area, but no one was paying any real attention to him or his little sister. He pulled her closer.

The Quarter Quell already had him tense. He'd been so worried that they'd discovered his and Liechtenstein's real ages and now he hoped they had. The one time it was dangerous to be nineteen at a Reaping… But he should have expected something like this from Panem.

"Alright, how about a little something different this time, hmm?" the District 3 representative was a peppy little woman with graying hair and a smile that seemed to take up most of her face. Switzerland was not fond of her.

"Girls first, okay?" she made her way over to the first glass jar. Switzerland pulled Liechtenstein closer.

It seemed like a decade before her excited little hand finally emerged from the jar with a slip in her hand.

"And the female tribute for District 3 is…" she squinted at the paper. "Lili Zwingli!"

Switzerland's heart fell into his stomach. Liechtenstein tried to pull away from him but his hand remained clamped down on her wrist.

"Vash, I'll be okay… You have to let go, Vash, you can't stop them…" Liechtenstein's calm voice brought him back to reality.

"I volunteer." he said, closing the distance between him and Liechtenstein again, bringing him a step closer to the stage.

"You.. You can't volunteer for the female tribute." the representative stuttered under his hard glare.

"I volunteer for the male tribute then."

"We haven't drawn that yet-"

"Does it matter? You don't need to. I volunteer." Switzerland said firmly.

"I…" she looked around at the other Capitol members, as if she wasn't sure if this was even allowed. "I guess you're right?"

"Good." Switzerland followed Liechtenstein up the steps, never once letting go of her wrist.

"Yo…Your name?" she asked Switzerland.

"Vash Zwingli."

"You're siblings then?"

"Step-siblings." Switzerland corrected.

The representative turned to the cameras, giant smile spread across her face. "There you have it, Panem, the tributes from District 3! Lili and Vash Zwingli!"

* * *

_**District 4**_

Russia hadn't taken his eyes off the screen from the moment the tribute for District 1 had appeared.

_Belarus? Can it really be…?_

Then Feliciano Vargas, and the Zwingli siblings… Could it be…? These tributes… were the lost countries? He wasn't alone?

District 4's representative smiled down at them all as the screen behind him flickered to show the stage he stood on. All of Panem was watching.

"Alright, time for District 4, everyone ready?" he called out, echoing the bizarre excitement of the previous three representatives.

He dug into the boy's jar first.

The countries were alive… were there more? Would he ever have another chance to meet them? Was the Hunger Games really an acceptable way to make that connection, a game where he would be pitted against them?

Playing Panem's rules?

The male tribute had already been called, a man closer to thirty than nineteen. Russia stepped forward and put his hand on the man's shoulder, stopping him.

"I volunteer."

* * *

_**District 5**_

Prussia watched the screen with growing amazement. He and Hungary had been reduced to silence from the moment 'Natalia' had volunteered.

Hope bubbled in his chest. He ticked them off on his fingers; Belarus, Northern Italy, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, now 'Ivan Braginski', who could only be Russia, of course it had to be that bastard… Could Germany be alive? Could his little brother really have made it to another District, was living there now, just like he and Hungary?

Russia took his place on the stage and the representative of District 4 dug into the girls' jar.

Prussia looked at Hungary. She was watching the screen anxiously, and Prussia was sure another German was on her mind.

The female for District 4 was chosen, another human, and then it was District 5's turn.

Their representative was another overly-excited woman, a young one, with spiky blond hair and a slim figure. She grinned at them all as her face appeared on the screen behind her, and reached down into the girls' jar.

"This is such an exciting time for District 5, don't you think? I'm so happy for all of you, this is going to be a simply splendid games…" she blathered, keeping up her bubbly little smile the whole time. She was up to her shoulder in paper slips, her fingers could be seen at the bottom of the jar.

She waved the strip like one of Italy's white flags. "The female tribute for District 5 this year will be…"

Prussia looked at Hungary again. What would he do if she was chosen? She didn't need protecting, that was true, but… _Russia_ was in this year's games, what if-

"Janice Golde!"

Prussia let out a quiet sigh of relief, unnoticed by Hungary. The thought of staying in District 5 forever alone sounded like a bit too much even for someone as awesome as him-

"Gilbert Beilschmidt!"

Prussia's train of though immediately cut off.

"Wha..uh, what?" he asked, looking up at the stage, mind blank.

Someone shoved him and in his advanced state of disbelief he didn't even both to turn and tear whoever it was a new one.

The crowd parted easily for him, leaving the way to the stage clear. Before he knew it he was climbing the stairs and turning to face District 5 and everyone watching on the cameras. He fought the urge to turn and see himself on the screen behind him.

"Any volunteers?" the perky representative called over their heads. For a moment there was silence.

Then suddenly someone was running towards the stage.

"Can I still volunteer for the female tribute?" Hungary panted, reaching the stage.

"I-Well, see the rules…"

"Come on, it's the Quarter Quell, don't let me get left out!" Hungary pleaded, green eyes wide.

The representative looked from her to the chosen female tribute, a twenty-nine year old with heavy bags under her eyes and a desperate look on her face. It was obvious that Hungary would be a much more lively tribute.

"Alright, come on then!" the representative smiled, waving her up. The chosen tribute nearly leapt from the stage, disappearing back into the crowd almost instantly.

Hungary grinned and stamped up the stairs, turning to grin at the crowd and pump her fist in the air, while Prussia looked on in disbelief. The crowd started cheering.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded quietly, as representative finished introducing them as District 5's tributes and they were guided to chairs to the side of the enormous screen where they wouldn't be in the way so the District could watch the rest of the Reaping.

"Getting sponsors, you're not going to get anything if you just stand there like an idiot. What happened to awesome, Gilbert?" she laughed back.

* * *

_**District 6**_

In District 3, Japan and China were having a whispered conversation. Some might call it an argument.

"You're not going to volunteer, this is the _Hunger Games_, even if you're right, those friends of yours are going to be trying to kill you in a few days!" China grabbed Japan's wrist to keep him in place.

"If they are, I can't just sit here and watch them die. I need to help them, what about you? You've got allies in the games, you're not worried about them?" Japan pulled against China as the representative pulled the male tribute's name out of the respective jar.

"I don't count Russia as an ally. And those are allies you're going to be _killing_ in the games, or had you forgotten?" China insisted.

"The male tribute for District 6... David Redwood!"

"Look, you see? He's going in the games and your friends will slaughter him. They'll be fine, please, Japan, don't-"

"Any volunteers?"

Japan pulled his arm free and stuck it in the air. "I volunteer."

China's face set. "So do I."

"Popular Games this year, huh? Don't want to miss out on the glory? Alright, you know the drill, come up here and tell me your names." the representative looked practically bursting with excitement.

"What are you doing?" Japan muttered as they made their way through the surprised crowd to the stage.

"Keeping you out of the games." China whispered back.

"Names?" the representative asked.

"Honda Kiku."

"Wang Yao."

"Alrighty then boys, you know the drill." he held up two ornate wooden sticks, both identical. "The one who draws the stick with the golden end is this year's tribute!"

Japan looked at China, then grabbed a hold of one stick. China took the other. They both pulled them free.

With a triumphant smile, Japan held up his stick, a golden tip glinting in the sunlight.

* * *

_**District 7**_

Italy's sobbing face was burned into Germany's mind. It wasn't like it was something he'd never seen before… but it was something he never thought he'd see again.

Then Prussia took his place in District 5, and Japan in District 6.

The representative called out the name of the male tribute. Germany couldn't hear her over the ringing in his ears. A terrified-looking nineteen-year-old stepped forward, but Germany's mind was already made up.

"I volunteer."

The crowd cleared a path instantly. With nervous faces, they watch him approach the stage.

"N-name?" The representative stuttered.

"Ludwig."

"L..last name?" the representative asked squeakily as Germany took his place on the stage.

Germany swung the axe on his shoulder down into the stage with a spray of splinters.

"Axis."

* * *

_**District 8**_

"I don't know about you, but I think he looks like this year's champion."

"No way, did you see that monster from District 4?"

"Yah right. He's big but District 7's tribute obviously has some experience fighting. And he's not exactly tiny either."

"You're both wrong. The girl from District 5 is going to win. Think about how many sponsors she's going to get…"

"With that body? They could probably afford to just send her a stack of grenades and let her go on a killing spree."

"That poor boy from District 2, he's going to get slaughtered…"

"Will you shut up?" England snapped at the teenagers chattering loudly in his ear.

They glared at him and shuffled farther away, their good mood annoying England to no end. Sure, _they_ weren't in this year's games.

But who was, exactly? Every district seemed to have some hidden would-be dead nation. Or look-alikes. Or some trick by Panem to pull him out of hiding?

"Arthur…? Umm…maybe it's just because I've never been to a real world conference but…" Sealand said hesitantly.

"It sure as hell looks like them." England muttered quietly. "It really does."

Not only did they look like the dead countries, they _acted_ like them.

"What are we gonna do?" Sealand whispered.

"Going to. Just because you're not in England anymore doesn't mean you're allowed to talk like an American." England scolded distractedly. "And _we're _not doing anything. You're going to stay here in District 8 like a good little nation."

"Does that mean you're volunteering?" Sealand whispered excitedly.

"It does. Now hush, they're going to call the male tribute any second."

"What are you going to do when you get there? Are you and the other countries gonna team up and kick Panem in his stupid face? Can I come? I wanna come!" Sealand pulled on England's sleeve excitedly.

"Shut up! I told you to be quiet. No, you cannot come. Stay here, stay out of trouble, I don't want anyone to find you, alright? Panem probably already knows there are still living countries, and whatever he does to us, fine, but you don't exist, got it?"

"I can take care of myself!" Sealand protested loudly. Several people turned to stare.

"Now, Peter, you know better than that." England chuckled nervously as people slowly returned their attention to the stage. "You will behave, alright?"

Sealand crossed his arms angrily. "Alright." he muttered.

* * *

_**District 9**_

Spain was rather certain that his open mouth was attracting stares but at the moment he was sufficiently distracted by the events on-screen that he didn't care.

It was entirely possible that he was wrong, it _had_ been over a hundred years since he'd seen some of the other nations (if they could still be called nations), but there were some things that were hard to forget, like an enemy's face or a friend's voice.

The screen flickered and District 9's smiling representative spread his arms as if welcoming the stunned people before him to their happiest dream.

"The hundredth Hunger Games, what an amazing thing to witness. We're all so lucky to have lived to see this day." he called over their heads. "On to the Reaping. One name for every year over nineteen…" his hand disappeared into the girl's jar. "This really will be the most exciting Games yet."

His hand appeared again. He squinted down at the name of the poor girl selected to join him onstage.

"Ana Freeman?"

A young girl who looked like she couldn't possibly be nineteen yet shuffled forward. The crowd parted silently. No one said a word as she climbed the stairs, her footsteps radiating out like the steady crack of an executioner's axe.

She turned around, brown eyes wide.

The representative smiled and said a few words Spain didn't listen to. He took the few steps necessary to bring him level with the boy's jar.

Was it really worth it to stay back here for as long as it took for him to be beaten to death by the guards surrounding the crowd on all sides?

The representative pulled a name from the jar.

Watch the nations fight each other and bite his fingernails?

"Riley Thomas!"

Hope they found a way to come out alive?

Spain cut Riley off on his way to the stage.

"I volunteer."

* * *

_**District 10**_

So possibly Denmark should have been concerned about his name being in a jar of unfortunate humans waiting to see exactly how unlucky they were. Or possibly should have been listening to what the representative was saying. He might have been more interested in just looking at her. You know, possibly.

In truth he wasn't quite sure what to make of everything and a distraction from making a very annoying decision was welcomed.

So the other nations were alive, so they were in the Hunger Games, so Panem must know that they'd survived by now, so they'd be completely at his mercy soon. Half of them had volunteered, it wasn't his problem. A hundred years ago they hadn't much cared about him. Unless he was taking valuable New World land, then he was a problem.

The point was he was not responsible for getting himself in this mess just because the other nations (if that was indeed what they were) had.

The female tribute was called. Denmark watched her with a detached sort of interest. What would happen to the humans in the Games this year? Would they even stand a chance against the nations, who might be fragile as humans now but had hundreds of years of experience fighting in the worst conditions? All of whom had won at least one war? Humans who, despite the increased age range, were still young, even by human standards? Against three Axis Powers, a pirate, a conquistador, the inventor of communism and his twisted sister, the creator of the German Empire, a woman prone to violence at the best of times, and a trigger-happy older brother?

So here was his choice? Either let some poor pathetic human get dragged into this mess and more likely than not get himself killed, stay here and watch everything unfold, or volunteer and see what their pathetic rag-tag dregs of a fallen world could do against an invincible county?

The male tribute was called.

The choice was obvious, but very annoying.

"Any volunteers?" the representative called over the heads of the crowd without much hope. District 10 wasn't much for Careers.

With an exasperated sigh, Denmark stepped forward.

* * *

_**District 11**_

"Don't be stupid, it's going to be the male tribute from District 7."

"I'm telling you, the kid from District 2 is just playing it up. Even the little twelve-year-olds don't burst into tears at the Reaping. Make everyone count him out and then come from behind when they're all weak and hungry."

"Or he's just crying because he's going to get killed in the first five minutes."

"Shut up!" Romano snapped angrily. Two teenagers glared at him for a moment and shuffled a few steps away, where they continued their conversation in hushed whispers.

Romano scowled at them and turned back to the screen behind District 11's stage as District 10's tributes gave a half-hearted smile at the camera and faded away. It was bad enough his brother had suddenly shown up alive just to get dragged into some state-run murder game, he didn't need to listen to people talk about him dying again. How he'd love to turn on them and tell them just who he was, but of course he couldn't. Like always, when he took his beatings from the District guards or worked himself to exhaustion to feed the fat bastards up in Capitol. How he'd _love _to tell them exactly who he was, but apart from being called insane, it would cause more problems than it would solve.

And now, of course, all the other supposedly-dead nations were practically telling the cameras themselves. Panem would find out, and whether or not they survived the Hunger Games they wouldn't make it out of the Capitol alive. Making problems for him, because of course Panem would search all the Districts for other countries and find him and-

"Almost all the tributes have been called! Who would have thought we'd have such an exciting Hunger Games this year?" the representative had far too wide a smile and far too white of teeth. He looked like his lips were stretched over novelty dentures.

Someone elbowed him from behind. "Move, I can't see." they hissed.

He turned and shoved them back. "Shut up, stupid, you don't need to."

"And the male tribute for District 11 is…"

"You shut up, I want to see who gets picked."

"Tyler Bradley."

"So go somewhere else, and stop shoving, damnit."

"Any volunteers?"

"I'll shove who I want."

The man put his hands on Romano's shoulders and pushed him hard enough that he almost fell. He turned and caught himself just in time. The crowd parted instantly, letting him stumble forward another few feet. His foot landed on the bottom step of the stage.

"Perfect! Name?"

Romano looked up at the representative as the male tribute vanished back into the crowd.

_Damnit_.

* * *

_**District 12**_

"You don't think-"

"Shhh."

"Alfred that's-"

"Shhhhh."

"You're not going to-"

"Hush! I want to hear."

Canada put his hand on America's shoulder and turned him so they were face to face.

"You can't volunteer."

"I can't stay here now! Canada they're alive-!"

It was Canada's turn to hush America. "It's _Matt_, and yes you can! Hunger Games, Al, Hunger Games, you can't go, you'll end up killing people, maybe other nations!"

"No. I won't stay here." America shook his head firmly. "Matt it's on _our _soil, doesn't that bother you? We have more responsibility than anyone else to fix this-"

"Is that what you're trying to do? Alfred we're all more or less immortal humans now, you don't even have your strength, it's not like we can call up an army to fight now." Canada tried to reason.

"Together, we'll think of something. Panem can't kill us all off, we're not human. We're older and we know his weaknesses." America said stubbornly. The screen switched to their rough little stage with it's sad, empty champion's chairs. "I won't stand by and watch people die anymore."

Canada sighed at his brother. "Always the hero…What can you do, Al?"

"I can try."

"Try what? Not to doubt you or anything but there's no way you can win this." Canada asked.

"The Hunger Games or the war with Panem?"

"Both."

"Almost done! What an excitement, this Hunger Games… okay, male tribute…." the representative reached into the jar.

"I'm not staying here anymore. Just sitting around, waiting for Panem to slowly kill these people."

"This year's tribute for District 12 is…"

"I'm not staying here by myself! If you leave now you're not coming back, whatever happens!"

America suddenly hugged his brother. "I'm sorry. I can't, you know I can't…"

"Mathew Williams!"

There was a moment as they both absorbed the impact of her words.

Canada pulled away first. "First time I've won anything. I can't believe my name was even in there." he said with a half-hearted smile.

America stared at him for a minute, mind blank, and then caught his shoulder as he made to turn around.

"I volunteer."

"What are you doing?" Canada whispered.

"One of us has to go, and I'm not letting it be you, not if I can help it."

* * *

**Bad ooc charries are bad, Germany's eyes are blue, Romano's are brown, Denmark has no human name, this should be the last chapter with everyone's PoV, absolutely no America/Canada shippage, I'm tried.**

**Did I get everything? Okay good. I'm overworked what with AP classes at high school and a college class (history of course) and a chem class I wasn't supposed to be in and these stupid runon sentences (I'm in AP Lang, I swear) BUT I WILL UPDATE AT LEAST ONCE A WEEK, I PROMISE.**

***gasp for air* okay so regardless of what I do during the week, if I update once or four times or none, I will post a chapter every Friday, good with you? (Meaning even if I post a chapter on, say, Tuesday there'll still be a new chapter posted Friday). I swear it on my laptop which is now my lifeline. So my GPA I guess.**

**Oh and yes I made Germany's last name Axis. Some people make it the same as Prussia but I was like "No this is Germany it's going to be exciting and unexpected" and I hope you were amused because I certainly was. (If you're not an aph fan and you don't understand what axis is, I'm sorry. If you are an aph fan and you still don't understand, just leave. Now.)**

**You're awesome just for reading this, I hate this chapter, but it gets more fun now, I promise, reviewing is love, if haven't already fav the story and I'll count it as a review cuse I know reviewing takes so much precious effort. If you have faved just review with a smiley face, that's not hard is it? I just like knowing that people liked it is all, I don't need lengthy book reports in my inbox all the time (although a long review is never frowned upon).**

**Anyway thanks for reading, and tell your friends who like either APH or HG cuse it's supposed to apply to both although I think APH fans would like it more (HG fans would be like 'THERE'S NO CONFUSING LUST HERE' and leave.)**

**IF IT WEREN'T FOR "DO BETTER" BY **_**SAY ANYTHING **_**THIS CHAPTER WOULD SIMPLY NOT EXIST SO GO LISTEN TO IT BECAUSE IT'S AWESOME.**


	4. Stars and Stripes

**If you (for whatever reason) like this story, you should check out The Strongest Nation by ArixaBell who wins so much harder than I do. It's a cross between Hetalia and Battle Royal and the principle is pretty much the same. Plus hers is more about kicking ass and mine is more about Panem destroying the world (not that it won't have some serious ass-kicking later…).**

**Also hurray, I finally managed to get my hands on The Hunger Games again so now I actually know what I'm talking about. Always good. ALSO MOCKINGJAY IS OUT, REJOICE! I won't get it for a month T^T SO NO ONE TELL ME SPOLIERS OR I'LL STOP WRITING. Or keep writing. Whichever punishes you more. (also this means even more canon for me to squash, yaaayy~)**

**Oh and yes, the main PoV-er will be America. I like America x3. (Not to say I'm not going to flip between all of them, or, you know, most of them.)**

**Oh, and I have realized that some people apologize for long ANs that are about a paragraph long. WHEN YOUR AN'S GET THIS LONG, YOU MAY APOLOGIZE. NOT UNTIL THEN.**

**I own the most annoying cat ever but not Hetalia or The Hunger Games. (And these delicious year-old tic-tacs!)

* * *

**

America looked around as the stylists poked and prodded him into a chair. The room was enormous, with high arched ceilings and fancy framed mirrors all around.

"So what exactly are you going to remake?" America asked after they had stopped touching him in general. They stood back, looking him up and down.

"Oh everything, dear." one said squeakily. "Clean you up and fix your hair and maybe find you contacts-" she reached for his glasses.

America grabbed them before she could move more than a few inches. "These stay. Work around them."

"Well if you're so inclined, you do look rather nice in glasses, I suppose, but maybe we could find some that aren't broken-"

"No, I'm wearing these." America insisted, keeping a firm hold on them.

"Could we at least fix them, dear?"

"No."

She sighed and nodded wearily, as if America were being ridiculous. "We'll see what we can do, then. Your stylist will be here in a few minutes. You're very lucky to have him, he's been working here for twenty-six years…" she continued chattering while America lost interest. They cleaned and filed his nails, something that he could honestly say he'd never done.

"Does this hair always stay up?" one of them asked, pressing on Nantucket.

"There's no use, it's not going to lay flat." America warned her. She frowned and continued brushing and spraying it with something that made his eyes water.

America didn't even notice him at first. An older man had been standing several feet away, silent.

Eventually, the Capitol citizens filtered out of the room, leaving just him and who America assumed was his stylist.

"Hello." America said uncertainly.

"Hello Alfred." he replied quietly. America noticed he lacked the bizarre Capitol accent that had been grating on his ears. "I am your stylist, Cinna."

America nodded slightly. "That's right, you're the one who worked on Katniss. Have you been working on District 12 all this time?"

"I have." Cinna said, stepping closer and looking America over more carefully. "Katniss was a good friend of mine, I was very sad to see her killed in the last Quarter Quell."

America noticed a long scar running from his ear down his jaw and past his collar. He was tempted to ask but at the last moment decided against it. He probably didn't want to know anyway.

"We've had a very interesting request from President Snow, a lot of the stylists are furious." Cinna brushed the much-abused Nantucket with his fingers curiously. "Just yesterday, in fact. He says that the tradition of District-related outfits has been overdone. He said that the history of Districts goes far past Panem."

"Did he?" America asked distractedly. He couldn't care less what Panem said, or what he would be wearing.

"He said that the history of the world is being lost. The Districts have each been assigned a country to represent in their outfits."

"O-oh really?" America asked, calming his voice before it cracked. It could still be some sort of coincidence, after all.

"Yes, the choices were… interesting, but who are we to argue with President Snow?" Cinna smiled. "You, my friend, and your fellow tribute from District 12 will be representing the United States of America."

America honestly didn't have a response to that.

"Tell me, does your hair always do this?"

"I-for…for as long as I remember. There's no use trying to flatten it." America said, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. He looked as if someone had just told him he'd be completely naked for the opening ceremony.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Cinna assured him. "It gives you a unique appearance."

"Ah..well.. That's the first time someone's ever complimented my cowlick, I guess." America said, trying not to sound too out of it.

"And you've voiced the desire to keep your glasses?"

"Yes. They aren't moving." America finally came back to Earth, pushing the implications of his new costume plans out of his mind for now. It wasn't like he could do anything about it. "Or being repaired." He added, feeling the broken edges of the frame he'd fixed with tape. The lenses had mercifully survived intact. He didn't need them to see but he would feel just as helpless without them. Anything the Capitol did to 'fix' them might change them so much they wouldn't feel like Texas anymore, and that simply wasn't acceptable.

"They suit you." Cinna said. "Now, about your outfit. I can't promise anything quite as astounding as people are used to from me, I apologize."

"Don't concern yourself with it, I don't need anything fancy." America, despite his previous shock, found he rather liked this soft-spoken man. "But… could you just tell me what the other Districts will be representing?"

"In order, I believe the countries were Belarus, Italy, Switzerland, Russia, Hungary, Japan, Germany, Britain, Spain, Denmark, Italy, and America."

America stared at him blankly for a moment. "You said Italy twice."

"President Snow was adamant about it. I believe he said something about 'Southern Italy' the second time around?" Cinna frowned slightly. "I'm afraid I don't know my history that well, I assume Italy was separated at some point in time?"

"It was. Northern and Southern Italy. The cultures are a little different but for the most part they were one country…" America trailed off.

"You sound like you know a lot about history."

"I know a lot about the countries that were around before Panem." America corrected.

"They interest you?"

"They…hold a personal interest, yes." America said.

Cinna moved on to examining the rest of him. "I do know the colors of the American flag were red white and blue, but those seem very… extreme."

"America was an extreme place." America chuckled.

Cinna smiled. "Tell me, Alfred, what is your opinion of America?"

Well there was an interesting question. "Land of the free and home of the brave." he said proudly. "Stars and stripes, bald eagles, freedom, independence…"

"Those are the things that make up America in your mind?" Cinna asked, still looking at him closely.

"Those things describe America. But what makes it… made it great were the people that made it up, the _United_ States." America smiled fondly at the memory. "No matter what happened, united under the star spangled flag."

"Do you recognize your American roots, Alfred?" Cinna asked.

"What?"

"A lot of the citizens of Panem do not consider themselves to be American, or of American heritage. Some have never even heard of it." Cinna sighed.

"Of course I do! It was the greatest country on Earth! Before Panem came and ruined it all." America realized too late that showing his disgust in Panem to a Capitol citizen might not be the best idea.

But Cinna just kept smiling. "America was quite an astounding place."

America sat in silence for a while longer, while Cinna continued his careful examination of him from head to foot.

"You seem to have a lot of scars, Alfred." Cinna commented.

"They're…from a long time ago." America said, not meeting Cinna's eyes. Well he wasn't lying.

"Did you get them in District 12?"

"I…" America really didn't want to lie to him, but he couldn't exactly explain why he had dark scars down his entire body.

"There are no cameras or monitoring systems in this room. The stylists are allowed complete privacy to give the greatest impact when we reveal our work." He walked over to a large cabinet in a corner of the room. "Katniss told me she hunted quite a bit before the Hunger Games, that it was how she kept her family alive. You seem like the type of person to have ventured outside the confines of your District, Alfred."

"I…" Why did he find himself trusting Cinna so much? "Yah, you could say that."

"Have you ever been caught?"

America shuddered slightly. "That too."

Cinna returned with something wrapped in his arms. "The District Guards can be harsh." He held the fabric under America's chin. "Do you have any family back in District 12?"

"A brother."

"He was the boy you volunteered to replace?"

"Mathew Williams." America told him. "We're twins."

"Any parents?" Cinna adjusted the fabric.

"No, we… I was raised by my older brother, Arthur."

"He wasn't?"

"He…. was raised by… someone else. An.. Uncle." America made up, not sure what to call France.

"You didn't grow up together?"

"We did, more or less." America smiled and leaned back in the chair. "Although sometimes I forgot he even existed."

"Hmm.. There was an Arthur in the Games, wasn't there?"

America blanched. "Uh… I didn't…notice." _Damnit, I forgot…_

"You and your brother have different last names, is that because you were raised by two different people?" Cinna returned to the cabinet, searching for something.

"Y..yah." America said hesitantly, cursing his own stupidity.

"Have you been watching President Snow's announcements, Alfred?" Cinna asked without looking up from what he was doing.

"No…I mean, I usually do but the power in District 12 isn't that reliable and they aren't required watching like Hunger Games or something…" America told him.

"They have become increasingly interesting. Watching them, I suppose one could see how he made the jump to the old countries." Cinna closed the cabinet and moved onto another a few feet away. "He seems to think that the more we know about them, the more we can be grateful that Panem came along to make our lives so much better."

"The Capitol's lives better maybe." America said defiantly. Cinna's words grated on his stretched nerves in the worst way.

"You think life was better before Panem?"

"I know it was."

Cinna smiled, which caught America off-guard a little. "But what about the terror and destruction in North America they have told us so much about? At least they protected us from that."

America winced. Luckily, Cinna still had his back to him.

"It wasn't that bad…"

"You weren't there, how would you know…?" Cinna turned again, another fabric in his hands that America didn't bother to look at.

"I.. my family kept track of stories from then. My great-something-grandfather was herded into District 12, and he remembered life before it…" America trailed off, wishing Cinna would stop bringing the truth bubbling to the surface.

"You come from the Districts, you know the very worst of Panem." Cinna said gently. "Even here in the Capitol, I wonder if this is even the pleasant life everyone seems to think it is."

"You don't like Panem?"

Cinna made a face. "I… do not care for the way some things are done." He rubbed the scar running down his neck and paused for a moment. "I was attacked by the state for an act of treason. They considered my opinion to have been stated too loudly."

"The mockingbird outfit you made for Katniss." America said, without asking.

Cinna nodded. "I believe they thought if they killed me for it, people would know Katniss had become the face of the rebellion. They gave me a warning and sent me on my way." He smiled again. "But Alfred, you are too young to have seen that, it was twenty-five years ago."

_Damnit! _He was being a real idiot today. "I heard about it. From my older brother. He saw it."

Cinna nodded. "He told you about it after you volunteered?"

"No.. he died a while ago." America said quietly. _At least, that's what I thought._

"I'm sorry to hear that." Cinna said. "You sound as if you've lost a lot of people in your life."

"I have." America spoke to his knees. "I don't know where I'd be without Matt." _Probably dead, the number of times he's stopped me from attacking the District guards…_

"Having people you can trust with your life is always a precious thing." Cinna said softly. "I'm sorry you won't have many of those were you're headed."

America hadn't even thought of that. How many of the old nations, if that was even what they were, would honor their past friendships? How many would bring up old grudges?

The thought of sharing an arena with Russia made him shudder.

An hour later he stood, dressed a navy-blue jacket, dark red pants and a white shirt, looking himself over in one of the many mirrors. His hair had been gelled into an artful disarray, Nantucket sticking up as always.

"I never realized how much these colors clashed." America said, looking himself up and down.

"Don't worry about that." Cinna straightened the jacket. America thought it felt oddly heavy.

"What about the stripes? I could just be the UK with this." America looked down.

"You let me worry about that." Cinna assured him. Considering his track record, America was inclined to let him.

"Last touch." Cinna draped something around his shoulders. "Maybe it's too much…"

"No." America grinned as he looked at the American flag fluttering around his knees. "No that's perfect."

* * *

Seeing the nations, in their increasingly ridiculous outfits, made him laugh. As District 12, America had the privilege of seeing every one of them.

Something changed when he saw England, dressed in a jacket bearing the Union Jack. England looked back over his shoulder, if just for an instant, and their eyes meet, a hundred years of bitterness and guilt exchanged in a single second.

"Remember to wave. Be friendly, let them like you, you're a likable person, Alfred." Cinna advised as he pulled on America's jacket.

"Right, yah." America shook himself and hitched his most winning smile on his face. Cinna grinned back.

"That's it. Smile and wave. You look like a champion." Cinna told him.

"Like a hero." America corrected, perhaps enjoying himself too much.

"Like hero." Cinna agreed.

The horses pulled forward, trained to know when to walk and where to go.

It was almost dark by now, the crowd over-excited and yelling themselves hoarse.

_Pretend it's 4__th__ of July._ America told himself. His smiled widened. He remembered Cinna's advice and waved to the crowd. They screamed and reached for him excitedly. It was just like an Independence Day parade. That's all it was.

The sun finally set. There was a sudden _Oooo…_ from the crowd. America looked down.

His navy jacket was covered with points of light that faded and brightened slowly and gradually, giving the illusion of stars. The Capitol was too bright for many stars, but the effect worked. He looked like he'd just stepped from the night sky, like a great constellation come down to Earth.

_There's a thought. Personified constellations…_ He shook his head and laughed. There was the English in him talking.

America discretely felt the jacket, but there were no bumps or light bulbs. The fabric itself was glowing.

His pants were too, in soft stripes that wrapped around his legs in lazy swirls. The appearance wasn't as amazing as the jacket but it was impressive.

People called his name, Alfred Jones, from the programs clutched in their hands. They reached towards him, screaming themselves hoarse. "_Alfred! Alfred Jones!"_

America wasn't sure when it started or who was the first to do it, but the screams changed.

"_America! America America America!"_

He waved franticly, his widest grin on his face. He caught sight of himself in one of the screens adorning the entire path.

The light from his jacket shone on his face from beneath, making him look even more inhuman. The flag on his shoulders pulled back from the movement of the chariot and the soft wind, waving like any super-hero's. His blue eyes were sparkling behind his glasses.

The chariots pulled into the City Circle. America's smile faded.

Standing there, hands gripping the podium, icy-white hair blowing in the soft wind, hard, black little eyes watching him from under an unforgiving brow, was President Snow.

Panem.

**

* * *

Woah, none of you were expecting that.**

**Anyway. I don't know what you think about America's outfit but...well I'm satisfied with it. It had to be SOMETHING amazing (it's Cinna!) and... Well have you SEEN people wear the great Red White and Blue? They don't pair well clothing-wise. (unless they're in a Union Jack, then it's kinda sexy. *biased*).**

**The Union Jack is the British flag, btw, the one with the funny cross thingy on it. I didn't know for the longest time. (GNASH YOUR TEETH, BRITISH PEOPLE, YES I SAID CROSS THINGY.)**

**Also, Germans, what's a(n?) ß?**

**Random shit is random. New chapter on Friday, don't forget! (pff, probably my shortest AN yet…)**


	5. Living in the Past

**CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP LOOK HERE I AM!**

**I lost track of what day it was T^T. I was napping and all the sudden I jerked up in bed like 'OH CRAP!'. This is short because I intended to finish it today but I forgot… I'll probably update this weekend with the rest, no worries. I tend to make chapters about six pages long, which is about 3,000 words~**

**ANYWAY several people asked if there would be pairings. Well A) it's Hetalia and B) pairings made murder all the more entertaining, so I'm gonna go with yes.**

**As for what pairings, you're just going to have to sit still and wait. It's not like they're going to be a SECRET. Some are pretty obvious, Geralia, Spamano… And some more but I'll let this chapter speak for itself, yes?**

**Uh… if you like actually read these, mention in a review? I'm sorta curious. I think I just use them to ramble.**

**(Also, for like three minutes this chapter was completely messed up because FanFiction hates me or something, so... if you saw that, sorry...)**

* * *

"_Please, have you seen an Arthur Kirkland? Arthur Kirkland, please, he's…he's my brother. Sandy hair, bushy eyebrows…? Please! Have you seen him? Heard about him? He's English, real heavy accent, probably limping…"_

_People pushed past him as if they didn't even see him. Frustrated, America grabbed one of them by the arm._

"_You there. Have you seen Arthur Kirkland? Short, sandy blond hair, eyebrows?" he demanded. The girl shook her head franticly and pulled away. America turned on the spot, feeling, for probably the first time in his life, utterly alone._

"_What about a Matthew Williams? He looks just like me, come on!"_

_But the crowd just pushed him slowly forward. His head was aching, and he knew, though he couldn't see it, that his capitol, his beautiful White House, was being destroyed. How he was even still alive he didn't know._

"_ARTHUR! MATT!" he shouted above the crowd. They glared at him and tried to push past him or even just push him, get him out of their way._

_Something snapped._

"_MOVE." The force of his words pushed the crowd back, creating a bubble of space around him. "You call yourselves Americans? Men fought and died so you could have the right to ignore me, you little traitors, and now you run. You run from you don't even know what. Well I know. I know and if it weren't for people like you he wouldn't even exist."_

_The crowd filtered around him, ignoring him completely._

"_DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?" America shouted at them. "THE FUCKING UNITED STATES OF AMERICA! You want proof? I'll give you fucking proof."_

_He pulled his arm back, intending to demonstrate his strength in the worst way. Someone caught his elbow._

"_That's enough, Al."_

"_Canada!" he turned on the spot and threw his arms around his brother. "Have you seen Arthur?"_

_Canada avoided his eyes. "I saw him fighting Panem."_

"_Then we need to help him! Where, where did you see him?"_

"_Al…" Canada looked down at their feet._

"_Canada please.." America pleaded with his twin. "Where did you see him?"_

"…_In the White House."_

_America stared at him as if he didn't understand what he was saying._

"_Al it's… I'm sorry." Canada said, and this time he was the one to hug his brother. "You know, I know you do."_

"_He… he burned it down." America said, arms limp by his sides. "No. You're wrong. We have to go back."_

"_Al how you're even standing I don't know but we can't go back. England is-"_

"_HE'S NOT DEAD." America roared, grabbing Canada by the collar. "LOOK AT ME." he added, as Canada tried to avoid his glare._

_Tears streaked down Canada's face. "Al, don't go back. I don't want to lose you too."_

_America paused, looking down at his brother._

"_Don't go back there Al, he's too strong, he's got too good a grip on both of us."_

"_He was looking for me."_

"_Who?"_

"_Both of them. England… England was looking for me. And Panem was coming to kill me. He found England instead." America said, eyes unfocused._

"_Al, please, just move."_

"_No. A hero would turn back."_

"_A real hero would see that England couldn't be helped and the best way to avenge him would be to _stay alive_." Canada tried to coax him into following the crowd. "Please, America, please."_

_Something exploded behind them. People screamed and tried to escape the shrapnel spinning out through the crowd._

_They both ducked. Something grazed America's arm, but otherwise he wasn't hurt._

"_Canada?" He reached to pull his brother up. Canada pulled his hand away from his chest, fingers bright red._

"_C-Canada!" America caught him as he made to fall._

* * *

America jackknifed up in bed, the ridiculously soft blankets thrown halfway across the room. He panted, covered in a cold sweat and shaking.

Canada had been alright, of course. He still healed fast by human standards, but it took several weeks all the same. By that time District 12 was firmly in place, and both of their countries had fallen completely. Anyone that had avoided being herded into a District found themselves faced with a barren landscape, eradicated by enormous fires and nuclear weapons, just like all the countries before them.

America's breathing took a long time to return to normal. The dream had haunted him for the last hundred years, robbing him of a decent night's sleep at least once a week. Now that the Hunger Games had called him to the Capitol, it had been worse than ever.

Shakily, he stood and walked to the enormous wall of windows, looking down at Panem's great city.

_Mine were better._ he thought bitterly.

Below, cars raced on their clogged streets, the lights of the city filtering down to the ground. He hadn't turned on his light, yet his room was easily bright enough to see clearly.

With the haunting memory burning in his mind's eye, it was easy to dismiss the glimpse of England he'd had at the opening ceremony. Easy to be convinced that his older brother was gone forever, like he had been a hundred years ago, like he had been until a few days ago.

America turned his back on the windows. He didn't want to look at Panem's greatest achievement anymore.

He didn't even bother looking at the clock. He wouldn't be sleeping anymore tonight.

He pulled the silky blankets off the floor and wrapped them around his shoulders. He didn't want to be trapped inside anymore, didn't want to have Panem's roof looming over his head. For a split second he worried the door might be locked but it opened easily enough.

The hallway was silent. Tomorrow he would be face-to-face with all twenty-three other tributes, and he needed to clear his head before that happened. Blankets dragging on the ground, he made his way to the elevator.

He wasn't even sure where he was going. They wouldn't let him just leave, would they? He'd rather like to walk around the Capitol, it might remind him of New York.

But the buttons for any floors below twelve did nothing. On a whim, he pressed the 'roof' button. The elevator doors closed softly and he was whisked up.

The doors opened without a sound, letting him step out onto the roof.

It was a beautifully decorated garden, complete with a loveseat bench and trickling fountains. The doors closed behind him.

He was suddenly glad he'd thought to grab the blankets. The air wasn't very cold, but the wind was heavy and biting. He pulled them tighter and walked farther into the garden.

With a sigh, he collapsed onto the bench. The stars overhead did something to calm his nerves, at least. Cinna's outfit had certainly given him a strong entrance to the Hunger Games.

And yet, somehow, despite being closer to the mission nations that he had been in a hundred years, he felt more alone than he ever had.

Panem did a good job of isolating them, of making them second-guess themselves and each other. America didn't know who he could trust, who he should be looking out for, how he should react to the other nations.

He didn't know if he'd come out of the Hunger Games alive.

**

* * *

That was ridiculously short, sorry. I'm actually still trying to figure out exactly how the nations should actually react when they first see each other. Suspicion? Anger? Euphoria? Should they try and hide that they know each other, even though Panem recognizes them? Should they trust everyone equally or should old alliances/grudges come up…? (Like, America trusting England but not Russia…) . Should they try to ignore each other until they're in the arena? Who's PoV would make it most dramatic?**

**You tell me, you're the one's reading it. What do **_**you**_** want to happen when they finally meet each other next chapter (and it will be next chapter). The next chapter will be the meeting, then the scores and such, then the interviews, and THEN the arena, finally. I might combine some of those into chapters or spread them out, depending… Just let me know what you're looking forward to and what your hopes are and I'll have a jumping point.**

**RnR please, especially on this one~!**


	6. Old Friends, New Enemies

**Helloooo beautiful readers (all five of you x3). I'm surprised so many of you actually read these ANs… Tell me, is it because you feel like you have to or because you're hunting for foreshadowing/spoilers or because I ramble and it amuses you?**

**I just thought I'd mention that I do my best to keep the characters in character because they aren't MINE and it's not up to me what their personalities or hopes or dreams are. It's up to me to put them in sad, depressing situations and force lust for others of their own kind upon them. This is the job of the fangirl. I take it seriously.**

**So no, I do not own Axis Powers: Hetalia or the beauty that is the Hunger Games, but I respect them both enough to try not to mangle them too thoroughly.**

**Although we all know at this point I'm a shameless canon-smasher who enjoys angst and character-death. Wait, you guys knew that last part, right?**

**THE GREATEST FORM OF LOVE I CAN GIVE IS A HEROIC DEATH.**

**Readers of SoT know this.**

**Yes that means character death. My apologies, but this is the Hunger Games.**

**MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOR!

* * *

**

"This is the first time you'll be meeting on equal ground."

Not really.

"Make a good first impression, you don't want any stupid comments to haunt you in the arena."

Too late there.

"Don't make any enemies."

Way too late.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

The elevator doors opened silently and Effie, District 12's representative of the last thirty years (much to her annoyance) pushed America and his fellow tribute into the Training Center unceremoniously. It was possible she was feeling overworked, seeing as she had to act as their mentor and representative. District 12 hadn't had a champion since the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, leaving the future tributes at a bit of a disadvantage.

They stumbled forward into the enormous room as the elevator doors closed behind them. America's mouth dried as someone pinned a number twelve to his back.

Twenty-two sets of eyes fixed on him. Fourteen familiar. Not a single one friendly.

He put on his most confident smile and approached the circle. If he could keep his cool in the middle of a war, twenty-two angry twenty-something's bent on him dying a bloody death shouldn't bother him.

He wasn't listening to the rules being dictated to him, although some badly-oppressed part of him said it might be a good idea.

Thus, he didn't notice when the tributes were set free to train as they saw fit.

"Hey.

He looked up.

"Oh, h-hey." America stammered.

"It's Alfred, right?" he held his hand out to America.

"Uh… yah." America took the hand, trying not to sound like he was asking a question.

"Arthur." England smiled.

* * *

"So have you talked to anyone else?" America tried to pull his fingers out of the knot he'd made. It was a very good knot, proven by the fact that even he couldn't escape it.

"Just you so far." England pulled the end of America's rope and the whole thing fell apart.

"Are you planning to?" America glared enviously at the perfect knot in England's hand.

"I haven't decided yet. You?"

America tried the knot again. "Probably. I don't know who, though."

England was frustratingly good at tying knots. Probably the most useless station in the whole Training Center, but it was empty, apart from the instructor, and allowed them to talk in relative privacy.

England looked around the room and America followed suit.

Russia was terrifying the assistant he was practicing with, and Belarus was watching happily from the sidelines.

Italy was having a great time at the edible plants booth, although it was possible he wasn't taking it seriously enough, judging from the instructor's reactions. Germany watched over his shoulder with a bored expression, Prussia and Hungary laughing at his expense. Spain was following Romano from station to station, babbling in Spanish, which was apparently thoroughly annoying to the shorter nation. Switzerland smiled half-heartedly at the camouflaged pattern Liechtenstein showed him. Denmark and Japan were the only ones at booths alone.

"Why did you volunteer?" America asked suddenly, forgetting for a moment that they weren't alone.

"I…" England looked back at his knot. "When else was I going to get a chance like this?"

"Yah." It was difficult, acting like strangers. But they both agreed, revealing their true nature now might get them killed.

The others apparently had a similar belief, or at least were doing a decent job of hiding what they were. Someone who had just walked into the room would have no trouble knowing some of them had been friends for lifetimes.

America was suddenly reminded of the world conferences, where afterwards they would talk and laugh and no one could tell they were anything other than college students enjoying a day off. When, no matter what arguments they'd gotten into, it didn't matter, because for a few blissful hours they were just humans. No huge responsibilities hanging over their heads, no oil shortages or wars or politics. Where the biggest argument was who had diplomatic immunity in this country and could therefore drive for more beer.

"What are we going to do in the arena?" America asked quietly. The booth instructor at least had the decency to pretend he wasn't listening.

"Team up, I guess." England said, although America couldn't tell if he meant the two of them or all the nations.

"What happens when it's…over?" America asked thickly.

England just undid the knot in his hands. "You'll know what to do."

America stared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have experience with this kind of thing, don't you?" England grinned.

What kind of thing? "I…guess."

"Come on, there are some throwing knives over there that look like they need a friend." England grabbed his wrist and dragged him off.

It wasn't until much later, when America was sitting on his bed, staring out the giant wall of glass that it occurred to him what England might mean.

He wanted a revolution.

* * *

Effie woke him at a ridiculous hour. The sun wasn't even up yet, and that was all he really needed to know.

"Up up up!" she rapped on his door. He pulled the pillow over his head and tried to block out her ridiculously high voice. "Come on, the Training Center opens in three hours and you don't want to miss out on anything, do you?"

America ignored her. Three hours was far more time than he needed to get up. And anyway, there wasn't anything he wanted to learn, except maybe how to decode exactly what his insane British friend wanted from him.

The door swung open. Hadn't he locked it?

"Come on! Up!"

How someone so small could be so irritating was no mystery to him. He'd spent enough time around Sealand to know it was just concentrated in smaller sizes.

Effie tore the blankets off him. He gave a rattling death moan.

"You're fine. Now get up."

Effie did finally manage to get him up and into the shower, much to his annoyance. He didn't need a shower, he'd taken one last night. But he had to look his best for the potential sponsors that might be watching maybe.

He still refused to let the Capitol's technology dry his hair for him. He didn't like the silky feeling it gave him, it just didn't feel right. He towel-dried his hair, letting it clump and knot in it's usual disastrous style.

"Oh no, you dry your hair _properly_." Effie warned him as soon as he stepped out of the bathroom.

"Why?" he demanded.

"I've told you why." She grabbed his hand and stuck it on the panel that shot the electric current through his arm, drying his hair instantly. He looked grumpily in the mirror.

His hair laid flatly against his head, making him look like Canada. Nantucket, however, refused to yield even to the Capitol's technology. He grinned at it and felt much better as Effie shoved Texas into his hands and pushed him off to the elevator. Behind her back, he still mussed his hair again. The Capitol couldn't control everything about him.

He stepped into the Training Center, and despite his early rising, Effie had apparently just got him there on time. Possibly she'd been lying about how much time he'd had, or he'd taken a ridiculously long shower to bother her. Probably both.

The tributes had already spread apart to various booths, the countries in the same groups they'd been in before, the humans only slightly concerned about the apparent ease with which they'd formed alliances. It was odd, yesterday he'd hardly even taken notice of them, but the humans here would be considerable opponents.

He spotted England across the floor and took a few steps in his direction. England spotted him and waved him the rest of the way over.

He was rubbing his forehead with a murderous look on his face.

"What? Get into a fight already?" America chuckled.

"You could say that." England said darkly.

Curiously, America tried to see around England's hand but he defended his forehead too thoroughly.

"Stop it, it's not important, where do you want to-HEY!"

America had pulled his hand away. He stared at England as if he'd never seen him before in his life.

"Oh my god."

"Shut up!" England slapped his hand back to his forehead.

"Oh my god. How did that _happen_?"

"They made me, alright?" England's face started turning red. "I had no choice in the matter."

"Oh my god."

"SHUT UP!" England roared, making as if to hit him. America was suddenly laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.

England had had his eyebrows waxed.

* * *

It became clear, as the day wore on, that while America was clearly superior with guns and modern technology, the nonsense Panem had laid out for the Hunger Games was beneath him. England, however, had no trouble with it.

"It's just a knife." England coaxed.

"I'm not going to hold it like that."

"That's how you throw a knife."

"Can't I hold it by the handle?"

"It won't throw right." England placed the dulled knife in his hand, upside-down, in America's opinion. America held it tentatively.

"You first."

England smiled and hefted his own knife, slightly bigger and longer than the one America held. It flew out of his hand and stuck in the dummy's heart. Or where its heart would be.

"Go on." England urged, clearly enjoying himself. America shot him an annoyed look and threw the knife with as much force as he could. The handle bounced off the dummy's head.

"You're throwing too hard. It's a knife, not a baseball. Use your wrist." England coached.

"That would have knocked him out." America said defensively.

"Of course it would." England put another knife in his hand. "You throw a little to the left. Trying aiming more right."

America groaned and aimed at the dummy's right arm. The knife still felt awkward in his hand, but he tried to remember what England had said.

_With my wrist…?_ he tried again, flicking his wrist more than last time. The tip of the knife cut a slit in the dummy's side, spilling a few beads onto the floor.

"That was awesome!" America cheered.

England laughed. "Told you. Try again. You've thrown a baseball plenty of times, right? Aim like you do in baseball, but throw like you just did."

America held the knife with more confidence this time. He threw it, trying to mimic England exactly. The knife plunged into the dummy's stomach.

"Yes!" America pumped the air with his fist. England grinned

"I told you it wasn't hard."

"Let's do it again." America said eagerly.

"A few more times, but we should try and get to a few more stations today. You never know what they'll give us in the arena." England told him. America nodded distractedly, picking up a second knife. He aimed carefully and threw, trying to keep in mind that it was more about dexterity than strength.

The knife caught the dummy in the middle of the chest.

* * *

**Buh na na na…..**

**Still kinda short but it's more like a continuation of the last chapter, really… I would have had it done sooner but I had homework. And I was napping. But mostly the homework thing.**

**YES AFTER WORLD CONFERENCES THE COUNTRIES GET DRUNK AND ACT LIKE COLLEGE STUDENTS. Or at least some of them do. I'm sure, say, Germany is impossible to get drunk. BUT MY POINT REMAINS.**

**Anyway, there is now a poll on my profile for voting on which character you're most afraid will die. I suggest you vote because I just might take the results into consideration. You don't want your favorite character to die because you were too lazy to go vote, do you? **

**RnR, and don't forget to vote x3~**

**Until Friday my dearies.**


	7. The Gamemakers

**Hello good readers, though you are few in number you are loyal and that is all that matters. So I have a gift for you all. A game, if you will.**

**On my profile is a link to a forum I have created, relating specifically to this story. I'm not going to say everything here, because that would take _forever_, but the general gist is you can now act as sponsors to your favorite tributes. Yah, I love you like that. (And no, not with real money, because that wouldn't be fun at all.)**

**Okay I don't actually know if anyone finds that even sort of interesting but the forum was damn hard to make (fanfiction hates me and my formatting with a burning passion), but… well I would be all over something like that. XD guess I'm just a little nerd.**

**Anyway, your (bi-)weekly chapter, delivered with my usual spam and sincerity. Don't forget your Friday dose is still waiting for you at the end of the week~**

* * *

"You've seen too many movies."

"Shut up, what am I doing wrong now?"

"I can't very well help you if I'm shutting up, now can I?"

I turned out, the longer Germany talked to his brother, the less he cared if he was capable of stabbing someone to death.

"You're supposed to hold up here." Prussia put his hand somewhere up the dulled blade.

"Then I'll cut myself."

"Not if you do it right." Prussia said in a bored voice. "Right here… like that."

Germany sighed and adjusted his hand, aggravated and losing his patience, which Prussia was well aware of.

"Well Italy's doing fine with _his_." Prussia added, as if to rub in a few more drops of salt to the blistering wound that was his inability to use primitive weaponry.

It was also a lie. Or, more accurately, not completely true.

Italy certainly had the air of someone who knew what they were doing, but he was also terrified of anything longer than his finger.

"This is stupid." Germany finally snapped, shoving the sword handle into Prussia's hands, where it probably belonged. "I don't care about any of this."

"You'll care when it's all you have." Prussia warned, taking the stupid 'weapon' back.

"Oh leave him alone, it takes years to actually be of any use with that." Hungary said lazily, leaning back on a table and tossing knives into a dummy several feet away. "You can work a knife, can't you Ludwig?"

"Of course I can." Germany answered, trying not to sound as annoyed as he felt.

"Good. Just get close enough to stick someone. That's all you need." A knife lodged firmly in the dummy's throat. "Although," she added, lowering her voice, "most of us have been using this sort of thing for years."

Germany scowled. "Great, so I'll be completely useless. I'm going to another station."

"Wait for me G-Ludwig!" Italy scrambled to his feet, having been sitting and watch Hungary toss her knives. He gave her a wide berth and skirted around the dummy, catching up to Germany and latching onto his arm again.

"Where're you going?" he asked happily.

"I have no idea." Germany finally admitted, pausing to look around.

"We could go back to the edible plants booth-"

"I'm pretty sure the instructor would appreciate it if we didn't."

"Oh. Uh…" Italy looked around. "What about setting up snares and stuff? For…food?"

Lately it seemed all Italy was worried about was feeding himself in the arena. An acceptable fear, if Germany wasn't sure he'd turn his nose up at anything that would actually be available for eating.

Either way, he shrugged and followed Italy's tugging. Whatever made him happy.

**

* * *

**

Clearly, after three days of training, nerves were wearing thin. Already, it seemed, some people were sleeping with one eye open.

America rubbed his, pushing Texas up against his forehead. Three days, and the countries still hadn't approached each other, hadn't left their limited groups, seemed almost afraid of one anther. He certainly wasn't going to be the one to break that unspoken rule.

England was slow in coming this morning. America waited, mouth dry, knowing that at noon they would be called in to see the Gamemakers, that they would have to showcase their strengths, a last-ditch attempt to prove that they'd survive.

Effie proved a poor mentor. She hadn't said a word to him about it, or his fellow District 12 tribute, he assumed, so he was left to figure it out for himself.

While he waited, he tried what he'd seen England do the other day, balance the knife on the tip of his finger.

_It's just like a basketball, just find the center of balance_, he told himself, trying it out.

"You're doing it wrong."

America jumped and the knife clattered to the floor. He shook a single drop of blood from his finger as England picked the knife back up, one eyebrow raised.

"Shut up." America growled at him.

"I didn't say anything." England defended, grinning. He balanced the knife easily, without looking at it. Something learned through years of practice.

"What are you showing the Gamemakers?" America asked, despite his annoyance.

England shrugged. The knife slipped down into his hand and he flung it across the room, hitting the dummy square between its non-existent eyes.

America stared at the dummy for a minute, then back at England.

"Real mystery how you're going to impress them." he said dryly.

"Oh god no, it's been years since I've actually thrown knives, for all I know the nerves'll get to me and I'll miss completely." England shook his head, walking over to yank the knife free. "You should do like I told you and show off your strength."

"What strength?" America demanded. "I can't exactly bench-press a truck anymore."

"Well how much can you lift?" England asked, looking the knife over.

"Uh…" America faltered. "I dunno. Not as much as I could."

"I doubt it's as unimpressive as you make it out to be." England told him, looking up and waving the knife as if he were a naughty child again.

"Go throw your stupid knives, I'm going over to the 'I can't use this shit to literally save my life' booth, waaay over there." America grumbled, stalking off.

"Oh calm down." England sighed, running after him.

Lunch was completely silent. Even America could feel the thick tension in the lunchroom, oblivious as he usually was.

Finally, in a dull, monotone voice, someone called the male tribute from District 1. He stood and left the room, ignoring the anxious stares that followed him. The rest of them stayed where they were, unsure what to do with themselves.

Slowly, one by one, the tributes disappeared through the doorway and down the hall. They didn't come back to the lunchroom.

America couldn't help but feel like the Hunger Games had already begun, that they were being lead down the hall to their deaths, systematically killed. Sheep walking to their own slaughter.

They worked their way up to District 8. England gave him a parting smile that looked more like a grimace and disappeared. America had to remind himself that it wasn't for forever. That they would see each other the very next day, at interviews. That he wasn't alone. England wasn't dead.

"Alfred Jones?"

He had a very quick mental conversation with himself about why he could not turn and run back to the elevator, and stood to leave. He was the second-to-last, just the female tribute from his district left, sitting quietly in a corner, looking down at her bare plate.

As the doors closed behind him, he realized he'd never even learned her name. She could be dead in a matter of days, and he didn't even know her _name_.

The room smelled vaguely of roasted meat and wine. The Gamemakers sat at a table, lined up to watch him and whatever he intended to show them. Which at this point wasn't much.

He squared his jaw and made his way to the center of the room. There wasn't a lot left, a few weapons he probably couldn't even hold correctly laid out on a table, several much-abused dummies, climbing ropes, a boxing bag…

Really, there wasn't much of an option. Experimentally, he pushed the boxing bag. It swung easily, and he wasn't sure if it very light or if he was underestimating his own strength. With a shrug, he swung at it, lightly at first.

He'd never boxed, but a fist-fight was something he understood. No blades, no right or wrong about it, really. Thumb inside the fist, throw as hard as you could, don't hurt your hand on whatever you're beating the crap out of.

The bag swung easily. He put a little more force into it and it came back at him so hard he found himself using all his strength just to keep it from breaking his nose. It swung in a wide arch, chain creaking ominously, and he met it just before it knocked him off his feet.

It exploded. Not very dramatically, but the noise was deafening. A tear bulged out just beneath his hand, spraying him with sand.

He coughed up the gritty filling, blinking in surprise. He hadn't expected something like that.

Neither had the Gamemakers, apparently. For a moment there was silence, then, of all things, laughter.

The were _laughing_ at him. At his dumbstruck expression, at the sand still sliding off his clothes and out of his hair.

Angrily, furiously, he gritted his teeth and tore the bag straight out of its hook in the ceiling. The chain collapsed around him, stinging his arm where it lashed.

Still, the mix of alcohol and his anger had them laughing uncontrollably. He fought the urge to throw the remaining bag at them.

But he was done. He wasn't going to listen to them taunt him like this, wasn't going to amuse them. He crossed to the door, the one opposite where he'd come in, the one that lead back to the elevator. It was locked.

He took a step back and kicked it in. The door caved, but stayed in place. It was less sturdy under a second blow.

A third, and it collapsed. He stormed through it.

* * *

**For those who don't know, Germany (not counting HRE) is younger than America. Thus he has the same problems with not-gun weaponry.**

**These short chapters are killing me. I hate me I hate me I hate me…**

**I'll try my super hardest to get a nice, long, 6-7 page chapter up Friday. Right now if I don't post this my homework simply isn't going to get done, so apologies all around. If I didn't procrastinate quite so much, this chapter would be longer.**

**Anyway, check out the forum, have fun with that, and don't forget to RnR.**

**Short chapter is short, long ANs are long, impatient readers are impatient. Till Friday, dearies, till Friday~**


	8. Perfect Score

**IT IS STILL FRIDAY. BARELY.**

**I'm sorry this is ridiculously short. I swear right now I'm working on the rest. I just couldn't respect myself if I didn't make the deadline….**

**I just felt like saying today I was in a bad mood and I came home and sat down at my computer thinking how much work I had to do and that I had a whole chapter to finish and I promised you guys six pages and how that just wasn't going to happen. And then I opened my e-mail.**

**I don't get a lot of reviews for this story but the ones I do get are just so awesome 3. You guys really are all I could ever ask for. And that's why I update every Friday, rain or shine, because I promised you guys and I'm not going back on my promise. I promised you guys six pages and I wrote as many as I could. The rest will be up tomorrow probably…**

**And District 5 has the most sponsors? I approve, my friends.**

**

* * *

**

America stormed through the elevator doors. Effie looked up from her perch on the couch, question on the tip of her tongue.

"I did horribly, no thanks to you. If you don't mind, I'm going to go come to terms with my painful, bloody death in the next few days, and I don't want your stupid voice buzzing around my head for those precious hours." America marched down the hall and slammed his door as loudly and forcefully as possible. The hinges creaked ominously, which did absolutely nothing to improve his mood.

Suddenly he hated everything about this room. The bed, the windows, the walls and the dull, ugly color of green they were.

Green. England. He was counting on him, wasn't he? He needed a partner with sponsors, without the Capitol gunning him down, and America had thrown that away.

Not that he was of much use to England. England and his perfect 12 would be fine. Go save the world and kill Panem and maybe just for the hell of it reform the United States. America would either be trailing after him like a lost puppy or dead.

He'd probably be better off to England, to everyone, dead. What the hell use was he?

It was really only the promise he'd made to Canada, that'd he'd come back for him, that whatever happened Canada would see him in the flesh again, that kept him from running at the windows and diving through them. Making a nice mess for Panem to clean up.

He threw himself on the bed, face-down, glaring at the pillow wedged against his face. Stupid Panem. Stupid everything. If only he could get hands on a god-damned gun, then maybe he'd be useful. But no. Guns didn't belong in the Hunger Games.

His mind ran through every possible scenario. He was killed, he was tortured for information about the others and killed. He was killed in the arena by the Gamemakers. He got a ridiculously low score and everyone came after him.

The sun slowly edged it's way over the city, darkening the room slowly. The scores would be revealed at sunset.

Finally, when America had established that he would not be murdered on the spot, he sat up. The room was bathed in reddish light from the sunset, nearly blinding him through his window.

He supposed he ought to go out to the front room, see just how badly he'd done. The door nearly fell off its abused hinges when he opened it. He fought the strange desire to laugh.

Effie ignored him completely as he entered the room. That was acceptable.

The District 12 girl was sitting on the couch already, biting her fingernails, watching the recap of the Games to this point. He sat down next to her.

The scores started. A picture, then a number. He didn't pay much attention, until he heard Effie gasp.

He tuned back in, shaking clinging thoughts that had nothing to do with the scores out of his head. He didn't even know what Effie was so surprised about for a moment.

The first thing he registered was the district number, eight. Then the score, a twelve.

England. England got a twelve. The impossible, unattainable highest score possible. And England got it.

America had joked about it but he hadn't really thought… what on Earth had England shown them?

The rest of the tributes cycled through and America wasn't paying any attention. He made himself watch as his face appeared.

A moment later his score was there. He felt his jaw drop, something that didn't happen to him much.

Because, really, it was about the last thing he'd expected. He didn't believe it at first, thought he must be wrong. Because his score couldn't be the same as England's. Simply couldn't be that good.

But it was. There, in bright yellow numbers, was a twelve.

* * *

America lay awake in bed for a long time. It was a new moon, but the glittering city below was bright enough to light up his whole room. The sounds were either too distant to reach him here or the room was sound proof, but somehow the only thing he could hear was his own breathing.

For the first time, he really thought about what was going on. How the nations had survived, been separated into the districts, hidden for a hundred years. How Panem knew who they were. How he could kill them all in an instant. Why he hadn't yet.

He was still awake when the sun appeared over the horizon. Sunday. Tomorrow night, the interviews, then all this playing around in the Capitol was over.

Effie never came knocking at his door, to wake him up. He assumed she was furious with him, and lay there, enjoying the silky feeling of his bed sheets. He felt dazed from his sleepless night, like he couldn't quite think straight.

Someone knocked at his door. He ignored it. If it was Effie, she'd just come in anyway. If it wasn't, then he saw no reason for them to respect his privacy any more than Effie did.

Like he'd expected, the door opened. He noticed someone had fixed the hinges. Which was interesting, because he'd been out of his room for about an hour since it had happened.

Effie didn't say anything. Which America found very odd, considering it was Effie.

"What? Another day of being poked and prodded into a presentable gentleman?" America asked, brought back to happier times, when England had forced him into 'acceptable' attire.

"I'm afraid so."

America looked up. "What are you doing here?"

Cinna closed the door behind him. "Effie is responsible for teaching you what to do and say during your interview tomorrow, but she… ah, seems reluctant to fulfill that role. So I offered to fill in for her."

America let his head fall back on the pillow. "I don't see what the point is." he sighed.

"Your score was very impressive, Alfred, if you do well in your interview there's no telling how many sponsors you'll get." Cinna leaned over his bed until he was looking down at him.

America stared up at him. Suddenly, out of nowhere, "I want to go home."

"Back to District 12?"

"No." America said, voice thick. He looked past Cinna, past the fancy arched ceilings. He saw his old home, his real home. He saw the White House, he saw a long line of presidents, of close friends. He saw carefree hours spent in Alaska with his brother. He saw World Conferences and the places they'd go afterwards, things they'd do just because they were forever young and for a few hours, responsible for absolutely nothing. There was a pang in his heart, a longing for better times, even if they hadn't seemed so great at the time.

"Where is home for you then, Alfred?" Cinna asked.

"Not here." America whispered. "Not in Panem."

Cinna was quiet.

"My home is back before all this. Before Panem. Before the Capitol and the Hunger Games and the Districts."

"That was more than a hundred years ago."

"I'm much older than I look." America said dryly.

"How much older?"

"About five hundred years." America laughed. "Give or take."

"Five hundred… the 1600's?" Cinna said slowly.

"Yup." America grinned up at the ceiling. "Sure have come a long way since then."

"The 1600's…when the Europeans settled in America?"

"Exactly then." America sighed.

"So…then tell me, is there a correlation between that and the country President Snow assigned to District 12?"

"I should hope so, or Panem really has lost his touch." America smiled dazedly at the ceiling. "Such a nice little boy he was, too. Very sweet. Didn't grow too fast. I never took much notice of him, he was a micro nation for a long time… then he just pounced, out of nowhere. Took me completely by surprise. Took everyone by surprise, really, but they didn't have a gun pointed at their heads. Then he just… took us out, one by one. Wheedled the weakest ones out first, used us against each other. Some just…gave up, when their friends died. Others kept fighting to the bitter end." America frowned suddenly. "I guess I should be grateful that England and Canada were fighting right along with me. I didn't have to watch them die… well I guess I thought I killed England but it had a happy ending, didn't it? And he's still kicking ass. Always was trying to overcompensate." He laughed suddenly.

"America?" Cinna asked quietly.

"Yah?"

"What are you, exactly?"

* * *

**For those of you who were caught up in my amazing writing, Cinna just called him **_**America**_**. That was not a typo. And trust me, I've nearly done that several times.**

**Anyway, this AN is very short because it's about five minutes to midnight and I WILL GET THIS CHAPTER UP ON FRIDAY. Then continue writing the rest of it. Sorry for so many short chapters you guys, school is a bit tougher than I thought. BUT I WILL ALWAYS UPDATE ON FRIDAY, UNTIL I AM DEAD. Or finish this story. I hope it's that one.**

**Remember you can go and vote for sponsors again, the polls have been refreshed…. RnR, it keeps me going guys ~3**


	9. The Interview

**The scores are on the forum, sorry I'm too lazy to post them here. But you're also lazy if you can't manage to drag yourself over there. So ha. We both lose.**

**Again, you guys with the reviews. They're so awesome, and you guys are the most awesome readers in the whole world (plus you like both HG and APH. That makes you win by default.).**

**Motivation song this chapter: Centerfold by Captain Jack. Yes, I'm aware that makes me a bit creepy. It was in a Prussia video. I couldn't stop watching. (Okay technically was a Germancest video but mostly it had Prussia. Yes I like Germancest. It's sexy. But not in this fic.)**

**I update every Friday because if I did not give myself a deadline I wouldn't do it. I'd just sit there going 'pff. I'll do it tomorrow.' and WE ALL KNOW IT. I only do things when I have a deadline. It's just the sad truth. I couldn't even watch TV if my DVR didn't have a limit on it ('I'LL WATCH IT TOMORROW, RIGHT NOW I HAVE TO PLAY WITH THIS STRING.' That happened. It really did. Are you ashamed for reading my stuff now? X3)**

**Also, school has pushed this hobby/time-waster called fanfiction to the very back of my priority list because EVIDENTLY I'm going to college in two years and if I haven't had the crap beaten out of my mind I won't be prepared for it (Anyway, chapters may be skimpy for a while BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS BE ON FRIDAY!).**

**All in favor that this is the last chapter before the arena?**

**I'm going to assume hands flew up. WELL GOOD, CUSE IT IS. Enjoy~**

**(Also, wtf Prussia, stop being sexy and distracting me. NO I DON'T WANT YOUR GERMAN SAUSAGE.) Sometimes I'm concerned for my own sanity. Then I realize, hey, at least I don't see fairies. I'M SAINER THAN ENGLAND AND THAT'S ALL I REALLY CAN ASK FOR. (I'm in a giddy mood, deal with it.)**

* * *

America continued in his sleep-deprived, delusional, one-sided conversation. How Panem had hit the smallest countries hardest. How they started dropping like flies. How he used the dead nation's people against the others. How he could convince anyone of anything. How their own people started turning against them.

How they stopped trusting each other. How desperation drove them to stupid things. How it was a war they all knew they couldn't win. How nuclear technology got involved. How no one really knew where Panem was, how no one knew were to attack because he didn't seem to have any territory that he hadn't stolen from the dead nations. How they couldn't stand to destroy all that was left of the dead nations.

What it felt like to be torn apart. What it was like to see the same thing happen to Canada, to England. How Texas had been cracked by a nuclear attack by Panem. How each of the deep scars tore across his body at one point, what it was like to be unable to hide, to never be safe.

Watching nations go insane from fear and pain. Fighting his friends, the same friends that laughed with him. Cried with him. Friends that went back hundreds of years.

Knowing it was hopeless to keep fighting. What it felt like when Panem destroyed his capitol. Knowing that if he hadn't run, if he hadn't been trying to save himself first, England might not have been trapped, might note have been killed.

And even though he knew it wasn't true, that England was as alive as he was, his voice still failed him. Still gave out at the thought of never seeing England again. Suddenly he was terrified, wanted to see him, just to know for himself that he still had a chance to prevent that pain from ever happening again.

The sun has fully cleared the horizon and was reaching toward the top of the sky by the time America finally stopped. He felt oddly…empty. Like he'd just poured out everything that made him America and now there was nothing left. The anxiety, the fear, the pain that had been growing for the last hundred years had faded. And he realized that was all he'd become. The only thing that made him _him_ was the fear and pain. It was as if now that he'd finally let it all out, he could remember who he was again.

He was suddenly aware that he'd just told every last of his secrets to a human - to a human with immediate contact to Panem, no less. Probably while being monitored.

And yet, he wasn't afraid anymore. He didn't want to hide from Panem, he wanted to meet him head-on, wanted a chance to show him exactly how ready he was to take revenge on him for everything he'd done.

Cinna was quiet for a long time.

"Well?" America asked, somewhat impatiently. "Think I'm crazy?"

"No…what was it like? Before?"

The question, like so much about Cinna, took America by surprise. "Before?" America thought for a moment. "Amazing. Wonderful. We didn't have this technology, this amount of luxury, but… it was better." His eyes glazed over. "All I know is I want it back. And I can never have exactly that, the world can never be the same. No matter what happens."

* * *

America looked himself over in the mirror. It was not Cinna's usual amazing, talented wonder of an outfit. To all the world it was little more than casual clothing. But to America, it was more than he could have ever hoped for.

A greenish-tan jacket and pants. White collared shirt, dark brown tie. And probably the best addition of all, the dark brown, leather bomber jacket.

It was like going back in time. Suddenly this whole Hunger Games stupidity was gone, and he was about to leave for the World Conference. Already planning the night out after. Trying to figure out what time he'd have to be up the next morning so he could stay out as late as possible.

He turned back to Cinna. "Perfect."

Cinna smiled. "It might not make President Snow very happy."

"I don't care. That's the best part." America said, turning his head to see the white numbers on his back. "This is exactly what I needed."

"Will the others recognize this?" Cinna asked, pulling the shirt straight.

"They will." America said, still staring at the mirror. "I can't believe you managed to put this together just from me explaining it."

"I'm glad you like it." Cinna said. "Ready?"

"Hell yah." America said, looking back at him, grinning from ear to ear. "Let's do this."

* * *

As District 12's male tribute, America would be last to give his interview. He sat as quietly as he could, trying not to fidget too much. It really was like a World Conference.

The tributes went up one at a time, giving their three minutes. The nations did their best to appeal to the crowd, working their best side. It was obvious that their mentors had been doing their jobs well.

Belarus was cold and distant. Italy chatted happily about how much he loved the Capitol and its food. Liechtenstein was quiet and delicate, Switzerland was terrifyingly overprotective. Russia gave short answers, making up for it with sheer size. Hungary was probably the most memorable of all of them in her revealing leather top. Prussia absolutely bursting with confidence. Japan quiet. Germany intimidating. Finally, England stood up for his turn. He glanced back at America. America gave him a discrete thumbs up.

It was obvious very quickly that he was using his high score to his best advantage. He settled back in his chair, arms and legs crossed loosely, a look on his face that told the crowd he thought this whole thing was nothing more than a formality, that he had as good as won. The crowd ate it up.

He played up his accent, which the Capitol probably didn't even recognize. He was calm and relaxed and…_sexy_. There was really no other way to say it. Everything about his screamed it, from his ruffled hair to his casual clothes that made the rest of them look overdressed. And the crowd knew it.

Caesar Flickerman, who had changed so little since he'd appeared America might have suspected him of being a nation himself had he not seen the tiny surgery scars on his hairline, bantered happily with him. Finally, the talk turned to his score.

"So. A perfect score? Care to tell us what happened there?" Caesar asked.

England chuckled as if it were something of little importance. "The Gamemakers wouldn't dare give me anything less."

America had never seen this side of England. He'd always been uptight, clean and pressed. Now his clothes hung low on his frame, his sandy-blond hair nothing less than messy.

"Well, give us a bit of hint, don't leave us hanging like this!" Caesar begged.

England put on a look at detached pride. "Oh, just a few things I picked up in my wilder days. Really, if they thought _that_ was impressive…" He shrugged.

There was a massive cheering in the crowd. England gave them a cocky little grin

"So, dashing man like you, any girlfriend back home? Wife?" Caesar asked.

The crowd leaned in eagerly.

England laughed. "Girls? Yes. Girlfriend?" He shook his head still grinning. "I'm not sure I could settle down like that."

America had to keep his jaw from falling on the ground. The crowd went crazy.

The rest of the three minutes went by in a similar fashion, Caesar asking simple questions that England turned into gold. The buzzer went off and there was an audible groan from the audience.

"Sorry my dears. But your sponsors are much appreciated." England stood and Caesar shook his hand again.

"I don't think you'll have much problem with that." Caesar assured him. The crowd cheered again and England gave them a confident little wave before taking his seat with the rest of the tributes, who were actively glaring at him. Several nations appeared to be in shock.

The camera had a hard time moving away from England and focusing on the next tribute. America only had two districts to go before he'd have to be coherent. He shoveled his disbelief and shock into the back of his mind for now. He could ask England about this little escapade later. He couldn't help but wonder, though, what Canada thought about it back in District 12.

And, far too soon, he was being called up. She shook himself mentally and stood, grinning like a mad-man. He could never compete with the show England had put on, but that didn't mean he couldn't try like hell.

"Alfred Jones. Quite an entrance you made." Caesar said as they shook hands. "Anything to say?"

"Cinna's as brilliant as he has been for the last twenty-six years. I couldn't have asked for a better stylist." America laughed.

They bantered a bit, about the Capitol, about the food, and then Caesar caught him off-guard with his next question.

"So, you've volunteered, District 12 doesn't have many of those. Care to tell why?"

America looked at him, and then suddenly back at the twenty-three other tributes. Fourteen looked back, willed him to lie.

"I guess I just…couldn't stand to be left out."

For an instant his eyes locked on England's. His grin had faded, he watched America with a slight frown. "Maybe try and remind myself of who I really am."

* * *

_A shot._

"_Don't do this! Please!"_

_Broken pleading. Another shot._

"_Please!"_

"_Be quiet."_

_Another shot. A scream, in pain, in horror._

"_Don't hurt him!" Pained. Desperate. "We'll stop fighting, we'll do what you want, anything, anything."_

"_What I want?"_

"_Yes. Please. Anything."_

_Footsteps. "You know what I want?"_

_Silence. The slow, steady drip of blood._

"_I want you to die."_

_The crack of a gun over a skull._

_America listened in horror, helpless, chained to the wall, strength too far gone to pull free. He didn't know what country had cried out, which was bleeding out onto the floor. Their voices were twisted by pain and fear. And he was next._

_Footsteps again, this time away._

_Something moved, somewhere across the room. He squinted, tried to see, but he had lost his glasses when they'd been blown from his face._

"_Who's there?" he called, his voice rough and scratched._

_A hand over his mouth. Green eyes an inch from his._

"_Stay quiet." A voice whispered harshly in his ear. The chains around his wrists fell away. Someone shoved his glasses back on his face._

"_England-" he tried._

_But England shook his head and pulled him down the hall, away from the room with the nations._

"_Wait, what about-"_

"_They're dead." England told him. "I checked." He kept moving, didn't look back, his hand locked around America's wrist._

"_Who were they?" America asked. He couldn't stand not knowing._

_A pause. "The Axis."_

"_Who…who was talking?"_

"_Italy."_

_America wanted to throw up. He realized how much sense it made, how the words fit now. England shoved a door open._

"_Go. To the White House. Your president is waiting for you there, he'll keep you safe. Find Canada, get out of here. We'll regroup, find another way to come at him." America heard the hint of a lie in his voice. They weren't going to regroup. They were going to hide._

"_England, what are you-"_

"_I'll meet you there." England told him fiercely. "Now GO."_

* * *

For the second time, America woke from a nightmare in the Capitol. Something he'd thought he'd forgotten, something that had been lurking in the back of his mind for too long, something he was terrified to go near.

He sat up, panting, trying to beat the memory from his mind. His fingers clutched at the damp strands of hair on either side of his head, pulled as if the memory would come out on the ends of them. He told himself the moisture dripping down his nose and ruining the silk bedspread was sweat.

And the truth was it wasn't just that memory, that dream. There were dozens, hundreds of them, all trapped in the part of his mind he couldn't go, could never go, because if he let them free in his head he'd go mad. If he tried to figure them out, tried to understand them, he'd be driven to insanity.

He remembered that the champions of the Hunger Games usually ended up traumatized. Drinking themselves to oblivion, hiding from what had happened, what they'd done. He couldn't help but feel that whatever happened in the arena, it couldn't be nearly as bad as what haunted him now.

He looked up, around the room. It was still dark, the stars twinkling brilliantly outside. It seemed even the city had quieted down, that they'd let the natural light of the stars and moon give them their light for now.

America stood up, ignoring the shaking in his legs. He stumbled to the window and pressed his hands to the glass, looking down at the city. It glittered unnaturally, the colors bizarre and too bright. The people swarmed below him, looking like ants, crawling over each other, oblivious to the man watching them. The nation that once stood on a perch very much like this, watched a city not so different with pride, with elation, without fear cutting through him, keeping him rooted to the spot.

He stood there focused on the city, terrified to go back to sleep, to let his mind wander on its own. Terrified the memories would come back. Would haunt him all the way to the arena.

The sun cleared the horizon. America looked at it as if he'd never seen anything like it. He felt blank, empty. He remembered feeling the same way after confessing to Cinna. Now it was different, now it was worse. He was hollowed out, nothing but a shell, a pawn, doing at the Capitol told him, being herded into the arena to his death.

The door opened.

"America?"

America smiled at the name. It was nice not to be called Alfred for once.

He turned and looked at Cinna. Cinna smiled back.

* * *

There were no fancy outfits for the arena, no twinkling stars to give him an edge here. Just simple green clothing and a long black jacket. Cinna helped him into them and lead him to the metal plate that would take him up to the arena.

"What are you and the other nations going to do?" Cinna asked under his breath, pretending to be fixing the string around America's hood.

"Survive." America told him.

A clear glass tube slid over him, cutting him off from Cinna. Cinna gave him one last smile for luck and then he was being pulled up, towards the arena.

The sun nearly blinded him. He blinked, trying to get his bearings, to see what there was around him, to find England.

Then the voice that America hadn't even realized he'd been dreading. The sound that removed all sense of humanity from the situation, made them nothing but starving animals facing murder or death.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the One-hundredth Hunger Games begin!"

* * *

**Well, it's not six pages, but I hope it's enough to keep you sated for now. It took me all day. Maybe I took a nap somewhere in there but STILL. A smart person may keep this until they finish another chapter to be sure they have something for Friday. I never said I was smart.**

**So I realized I never really made it very clear what happened to the nations. The little bits and pieces you get are things America is remembering against his will, because he doesn't want to dwell on them. It's not hard to imagine why. I torture poor innocent nations, I'm such a bad person… Ah well, now it's time to kill them~**

**OH EM GEE~ England is a sexy monster. Shut up, you all know he's capable. I feel like I've made a bit of a Mary Sue out of England (What's the male equivalent of that? Marty Sue? Whatever, I don't care anymore.). HE ISN'T PERFECT, I SWEAR…. He's just a sexy pirate. You've all done it, don't look at me like that. I MIGHT KILL HIM, YOU DON'T KNOW. Seriously, watch out for poor Iggy, he's in a lot of danger with that 12. **

**I said nothing.**

**Once again, the polls have been refreshed and information updated. Go ahead and vote again AND FOR GOD'S SAKES, PRUSSIA AND HUNGARY HAVE ENOUGH VOTES. XD Honestly you're all very concerned for them. (Although I have the sneaking suspicion most of you are just voting for Prussia...I can't blame you.)**

**Anyway, consider this my real update for Friday. Because my chapters have been so short lately. LOVE YOU~**


	10. The Bloodbath

**HAPPY WEDNESDAY EVERYONE!**

**Who's ready for so **_**carnage**_**? **

***looks around at terrified faces***

**This is the Hunger Games people, if you want fluff you're going to have to go somewhere else to get it. Unless you don't mind bloody fluff…**

**Oh you guys are horrible. CONTINUE spamming Prussia with votes, god knows what you think I'm planning… And Hungary got no votes? I knew it all along. It's a good thing she benefits from Prussia's votes or I'd have to do something dramatic. Anyway, *innocence* who's ready for a chapter where NOBODY DIES?**

**Song this chapter: My Manic and I**

**It's a really good song 3. I find the weirdest shit… BUT IT'S SUCH A GOOD SONG! :3**

**Seriously you guys I don't put those there for my health. I AM SHARING AWESOME MUSIC AND YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO IT.**

**Whatever, you read my rambles, that's all I should really ask… **

**IMPORTANT: WHEN THE POV CHANGES, SO DOES THE TIME. It goes back to the beginning of the bloodbath. Because that's the only way I could pull it off. Just don't get confused all over me.**

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Sixty seconds. That's all he had. Just sixty seconds.

He was trying franticly to find England, trying not to lose his head entirely. Had it really been so long? Had he really once fought wars and now he stood here panicked because of a mere twenty-three opponents?

How long had it been? Thirty seconds? He couldn't see, the sun was almost directly in his line of sight. England must be on the other side of the Cornucopia. His stomach sank. That meant either running right through the worst of the fighting or moving away from him. He wondered if Panem had done this on purpose, left them stranded and weakened.

But then he saw Germany and Italy right next to each other. No. This wasn't planned, he and England were just unlucky. Probably their high scores, make sure two strong tributes ended up opposite each other.

He used the last few seconds to take in who was where. Who he would avoid for now, who he thought he could maybe trust not to attack him first.

And that's when he realized how much danger he was in. He'd gotten a twelve. A _twelve_. The Careers would be on him the moment the gong sounded.

Not just him. America realized with growing horror that England, after what he'd pulled at his interview, was probably the prime target for most of the tributes planning to stay and fight at the Cornucopia.

Mind set, he angled himself to run straight across the field. He was fast, he could make it across before most of them had weapons. And even then, he was still big, still taller than a lot of them, and still had a twelve. He hoped most of them would hesitate before coming at him.

He gritted his teeth in the last seconds before all hell broke loose. If he had to, he _would_ kill to protect England.

The gong sounded. He bolted out towards the Cornucopia, keeping his head and snatching things at random from the ground. He'd figure out what they were later.

He was first to reach the Cornucopia, but there were at least five tributes on his heels. With a jolt of terror, he recognized the massive shape of one of them. Russia. And there, by his side, his demented sister.

America didn't want to hang around to see if Russia would honor their past right now. At the twenty-foot mouth of the horn, he grabbed a backpack that was heavy even for him and a bag that gave the hopeful sound of metal on metal when he picked it up. Then he was off again, slinging the backpack over his shoulder and tucking the bag under his arm.

But he wasn't going ignored. Someone grabbed his wrist.

He whirled around, breathing heavily, trying to pull free. But the boy that had a grip on him, though human, was strong. He wouldn't let go easily.

America met his eyes. They were strong, determined. He was going home, whatever it took. And if that meant killing America for the bag in his hands, so be it.

_England_. America thought, looking at this boy like an enemy, like a threat. Not at the scared boy he saw. _This is for England_.

He might not do well with England's knives and swords, but fist-fighting was something he knew how to do. And he was a dirty fighter.

He twisted his arm around, forcing the boy to either let go or get his arm broken. He chose the first option.

Keeping a tight hold on the bag that might very well save his life later, America grabbed the boy by his collar and pushed him back as hard as he could, against the cold metal of the Cornucopia. There was a crack.

For a moment, America wasn't sure what had happened. And then, when the boy failed to move, when he slid down the metal, eyes blank, America let go, horrified. He was dead, neck broken. And America had been the one to kill him.

He shoved his growing panic back and whirled around, trying to wipe away blood that wasn't there. England was nowhere in sight. Had he run already? Was he still here, fighting, and America just couldn't see him?

America realized he still wasn't armed. He couldn't just go off his strength alone, he knew a knife would do more damage than a fist. He hurriedly opened the bag, just under a foot long and less than six inches deep. Just as he'd hoped, inside were knives, maybe a dozen or so. The thick, durable material of the bag kept them from jabbing through. With as much care as he dared in the middle of the fighting, he pulled one free by it's handle and pulled the zipper back up.

With renewed determination, he pressed forward again, hoping to see England somewhere, anywhere. A sudden thought nearly froze him in place.

_What if England's dead?_

What if he'd already failed? What if England was one of the bodies strewn across the ground, bleeding out, or maybe neck broken, like the boy at the Cornucopia… America bit his tongue, trying not to panic. Panicking would not help him.

A knife went whizzing past his ear. He ducked belatedly and turned, looking around, wide-eyed, for the thrower. But nothing else came at him.

"This way! The bastard from District 8 is over here!"

America turned toward the yelling, mouth dry. It was a career, a girl, from a District America didn't recognize.

But he did understand what she was saying. He tried to pinpoint her, find her in the horrible carnage happening around him. There, just past the Cornucopia, near the mouth. A cluster of tributes, all fighting for the very best goods at the bottom of the horn.

America ran in that direction, knife held so tightly in his fist his knuckles had turned white. Through the fighting, America thought he saw a flash of sandy hair, a flicker of green. He was maybe twenty feet away when the tribute blocking his view backtracked, away from the worst of the fighting.

There was England, alright. There was a gash on his forehead leaking blood down into his right eye that had to be blinding him, and yet he apparently had no trouble handling the blade in his hands, something terrifying and curved, maybe a foot and six inches long. Not quite a sword but not a knife either.

Someone came at him with what America really hoped was not the mace it seemed to be. His brain froze in panic as the spiked end came within a foot from England's head.

But England saw it. He took a swipe at the arm holding it, then grabbed the bleeding limb with his free hand, pushing the weapon to the right, hitting another tribute in the chest. Both the wielder and the second tribute collapsed.

It was really no wonder how England had managed to get his high score. The knife throwing in training had been nothing - absolutely nothing - compared to watching him fight.

He flinched back. The sword meant for the hand holding his knife grazed his fingers, which still hurt like hell. A girl, small, lithe, and terrifying, pulled back again, not waiting for him to react. The knife made a poor shield for the full force of her sword.

He swallowed, knowing that this was a fight in which he was at a severe disadvantage. The girl pulled back and swung repeatedly, each time just barely stopped by the pathetic little blade in America's hand that looked like a butter knife compared to what she held.

He found himself being backed into the crowd of fighting. He knew that at any minute someone could grab him from behind, stick in him the back, cut his throat. He wasn't used to close-range fighting like this. It was always at a distance, even during the Revolution, it was with _guns_, damnit!

The girl swung at his neck and America knew, as if watching in slow-motion, that he wouldn't be in time to stop her. That his life was probably going to end right here.

Someone grabbed his jacket and pulled sharply. He fell back against them and the sword whizzed over his head.

A hand shot from nowhere and jabbed the girl in the hand that held the sword. She cried out and dropped the sword.

America didn't hesitate. He pulled up a foot and kicked her in the chest. He felt at least one rib break.

"Don't you _dare_ scare me like that again." England scolded, pushing him back to his feet. He was panting heavily, still hadn't wiped the blood from his eyes.

For a moment, America felt like he should be annoyed that he needed England to protect him. But he wasn't. It was almost like he was a boy again, a colony. Like he couldn't be hurt, because England was here.

England's eyes widened, focused on something just behind America. America was too slow in turning, England pushed him, knocking him against the Cornucopia. America pushed away from it the moment the cold metal touched his hands. But, again, he was too slow.

The world was in slow motion again. The girl, apparently still very much alive and very much determined, had lunged at America in the few seconds he'd had his back turned on her. England had seen, had pulled him away. And in doing so, left himself undefended for a split second.

America saw the stab meant for him hit England, saw the cold, brutal metal slide past the dark green of England's shirt. Saw England swing at the girl, saw her cut nearly in half. Saw him cut his hands trying to pull the dead girl's sword from his stomach.

Saw it at the same time as another girl, who raised her arm to bring her weapon - a knife hardly more than four inches long - down on his head. Saw his hand shoot out, saw long before he felt the tiny knife slide right through his hand.

Saw him grab the girl's arm ferociously. Saw the knife in his other hand lodge in her ribcage.

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_**Sixty Seconds Before the Gong**_

Prussia scanned the circled tributes, counting down silently. There. Across the circle. Germany and Italy right next to each other. Five tributes to his right was Hungary. Perfect.

He caught her eyes. She nodded and turned to the Cornucopia, already sifting through it in her mind, deciding what was worth fighting for and what was to be ignored. Germany pointed North out to Italy.

This was the plan. Germany and Italy run to the North and find water. Hungary find and collect supplies. Prussia defend her so she could focus on what she was doing. It was simple and efficient and it would go horribly wrong. War had taught him to never bet his life on a specific outcome. Any one of them could wind up dead within the hour, and the plan only really worked with all four of them. But it was better than nothing.

It had taken a fair amount of arguing before Germany agreed to leave them behind. But, as Prussia had been forced to point out, Germany was useless. He couldn't do anything but be another body for Prussia to protect. And he knew it.

Now, as he waited for the gong, muscles pulled tense, he knew what a horrible situation they really were in. Because he was hoping _Italy_ could protect _Germany_. He wanted to laugh.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something that took any humor away from the situation. The heavy form of Russia, one he knew he'd never forget. He was right next to him, separated by barely five feet.

Russia, as if feeling Prussia's eyes on him, turned and smiled. Prussia felt chills go up his spine.

The gong sounded. Prussia scrambled to find Hungary, nearly forgetting himself in the surge of fear that came with the release of the strict five feet between him and Russia.

Good old Hungary. She was suddenly right in front of his face, shoving a knife in his hand.

"Ready?" she asked breathlessly.

"Just watch out." Prussia muttered, looking over his shoulder, but Russia was gone, off towards the Cornucopia. "And try and stay away from the center."

Hungary shrugged and took off again, leaving Prussia to follow her. She was easily ignored in the fighting, weaving between legs, but he was not.

He did his best not to kill anyone. It was something he didn't want to do, and he'd avoid for as long as he could. A cut here, a fist placed just right, they backed off for long enough for him to run after Hungary again.

She was suddenly right in front of him again, shoving a backpack in his arms.

"Put this on, I can't carry everything." she panted.

Prussia did as she said, throwing one arm through the appropriate loop and rushing forward to grab a hand that was inches from Hungary's back, tearing free the knife clasped in it. He gave the girl holding it a few broken fingers to remember him by and shoved the knife in the backpack slung over his shoulder without looking at it.

He slid the other strap on and ran after Hungary again, who was moving far too fast for him. He was still a good two yards away when he appeared.

Russia, looking characteristically evil and wielding what must have been a middle-aged mace. Prussia's heart plummeted as he raised it, intent clear. Hungary was still focused on what she was doing, didn't see him.

Prussia reacted, as he usually did, without thinking. He flew forward, pulling Hungary against his chest, turned slightly away from Russia.

The mace met his arm with the sound of cracking bones. The backpack had taken the worst of the blow, but something had snapped near his shoulder.

"You idiot!" Hungary cried, breaking free from his weakened hold. He nearly fell without her added support but she grabbed his good arm and steadied him.

Russia took no notice of this. With his characteristic sadistic grin, the mace came up again. Hungary grabbed for one of the weapons on her belt, but even if she could free something in time, it would do no good against a swing with Russia's force behind it.

Someone grabbed Russia's elbow. Surprised - and possibly a bit annoyed - he turned. It was a slight distraction, but it was enough for Hungary to act. She tore the bowie knife from her belt and thrust it into the closest part of Russia she could reach. In this case, his hip. The blade slid past the thin black jacket almost too easily, as if there were nothing there. It came free covered in dark blood.

Russia focused on them once more, and still no anger or pain affected his features. Only a sort of surprised interest. Hungary backtracked and pulled Prussia with her. He stumbled after her, thankful for the numbing effect of shock and panic. In a few moments he would be completely useless, if the smell of blood coming from his broken arm was anything to go by. He refused to look at it, knowing he would either pass out or throw up, and neither of those were an option right now.

But whoever had stopped Russia from killing them before was not done. They kept a firm grip on his elbow, pulling it down far enough to grab the mace. Whoever they were, they weren't strong enough to pull if from his grasp, but they certainly got his attention.

As Russia's arm lowered, Prussia caught a familiar glimpse of combed blond hair. Germany.

He'd completely ignored every Prussia had told him! And, although some part of him quietly pointed out that he'd be dead if Germany _had_ listened, he was far too busy being furious to pay attention to it.

Of course, Russia wasn't alone. Why would he be alone? That could only make this situation slightly less hopeless.

Belarus came from what had to be literally nowhere. Hungary met her crazed lunge with the bloody bowie knife still in her hand.

Belarus had a spear in her hand. The tip and shaft skidded against Hungary's knife, pushing it to the side. She moved to pull back and charge at Hungary again. Hungary stopped it with her hand this time, leaving her knife free. She took a swipe at Belarus, opening a gash on her nose, but the spear was too long for her to do any real damage.

Prussia looked between the two fights, feeling utterly useless. Not a good feeling for him. Really, at this point the only thing he could hope for was Italy running in and saving the day. Today was a sad day, when that was his last hope.

Hungary could handle herself fine, that wasn't what he was afraid of. Even a psychotic bitch wasn't really a concern for her.

Germany was still grappling with Russia. It was a battle of strength, and while Russia clearly had the advantage of size, Prussia knew Germany was much stronger than he looked. Sometimes too much so for his own good. It could go either way at this point.

For an instant, it seemed Germany had won. The mace slipped from Russia's hand. The same hand slid around Germany's throat and heaved him into the air.

Grappling was too even a sport for Russia. He liked a game he was assured he could win.

Germany's back hit the Cornucopia, a blow strong enough to kill a man. But Germany wasn't a man, he was a nation, and a damn strong one at that. He stared Russia down, hands tearing at Russia's fingers, opening deep welts that Russia continued to ignore.

Prussia's vision was starting to fail. A black ring threatened the edges of his sight. How much blood had he lost so far? He couldn't be sure without looking down and that was something he was still unwilling to do. His arm had started to ache, creating a buzz in his mind that simply was not helping matters.

Hungary was bleeding from a gash on her forearm, but Belarus was favoring one leg. Germany ground his heel into the bleeding slit on Russia's hip. Russia ignored it.

Germany gave up on inflicting damage on Russia and aimed a kick at his chest. It pushed Russia back far enough for him to break out of Russia's hold, gasping, and scrabble at the mace he'd dropped. Russia kicked him and his back hit the Cornucopia again, leaving a smear of blood down the rough, golden surface. Prussia could see the blood staining the hair at the base of his head.

But the mace was in Germany's hand, and he had enough sense to use it. He swung at Russia's leg. Hard. Russia crumpled.

Germany pushed himself up, away from Russia. He staggered back a few steps, mace held tight in both hands.

After a moment when he seemed to decide no one was coming at him, he came back towards where Prussia stood, watching him. He swerved toward Hungary and Belarus, as if dazed, and swung the mace at Belarus' spear. It snapped in half like a twig.

Belarus hesitated, looking at the broken shaft in her hands, then at German and Hungary, watching her, waiting to see what she would do.

She turned and ran, back to Russia.

Someone caught him. Had he been falling? He hadn't noticed. He turned to see Hungary, glaring at him furiously.

"You're still an idiot."

"Awesome." Prussia said, attempting a grin. From Hungary's reaction, he assumed it better resembled a grimace.

"We should move." she said, looking back at the tributes still fighting for the goods at the Cornucopia, at Russia and Belarus. "Are you alright, Ger-Ludwig?" She caught herself at the last second.

Germany nodded, still looking dazed.

"Where's Feliciano?"

"North, where he's supposed to be." Germany said slowly, rubbing the back of his head. His hand came away bloody.

"Where you're sup-

"We'll deal with that later." Hungary said quickly, intervening the fight before it began.

"Whatever." Prussia muttered as she shifted his good arm over her shoulders and half-lead half-dragged him toward the safety of the trees, following Germany, who was still feeling the back of his head.

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**All in favor for my death…?**

**Yah. Brutal chapter. But, uh… at least no nations are dead… Hey it could have been a lot worse.**

…**OKAY FINE. You were right to worry about Prussia. But he's FINE and it's only because he's a complete moron. Really, Prussia, you couldn't just grab the mace or something? You had to let Russia break your arm? *facepalm* only you….**

**And yes, England fights like a freaking madman. Until America has to go and be all distracting. I had to do it, don't you see, or England would have too much of an edge! DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT. I TOLD YOU HE WASN'T A GARY STU. (Many thanks to the people who pointed out my stupid.)**

**I had way too much fun writing this. I've been waiting to write carnage for nine chapters and man did I go crazy with it…**

**Okay, in the end, here's what I came up with for the sponsors: There are countries I know will die and countries I know will live. I'm not telling you who those are.**

**The rest of them, I haven't decided yet. So if they wind up hurt (because these sorts of things catch me as unawares as you), I'll look at how many sponsors they have and if they can afford something. So I (acting as mentor to all of them) choose who gets what when.**

**You may not like it but you don't have to. Because it works for me.**

**The list of injuries and fatalities can be found on the forum, under Tributes…**

**HOLY CRAP LONG AN IS LONG.**

…**You know if you guys didn't review I could never get a chapter a week, right? It's right there. The pretty green button.**

**No I know you guys review. You're such good little readers. I see some stories where it seems no one ever reviews… I feel so bad for those writers. I LOVE YOU, MY DEARS~!**


	11. Insert Catchy Title Here

**I mentioned this is rated T for language too, right?**

…**well the innocent cover your eyes, Prussia and Romano both like cursing way too much. I have never had more fun writing dialogue.**

**ANYWAY, you guys are getting so lazy with your reviewing. It's possible the whole 'updating twice a week' makes you sort of tired but that probably won't keep happening because it turns out The Grapes of Wrath **_**doesn't**_** read itself.**

**I had to re-rewrite this chapter like three times, which is partially why it's late. I really hope I don't have to rewrite it again…**

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"FUCK!"

"Shut up, it's not that bad."

"I'll decide how bad it is! Stop poking at it!"

"You're the idiot who had to run off and be all heroic. Honestly if you hadn't been wearing that backpack…" Hungary grumbled at him wordlessly, kneeling in the grass next to him, pulling threads and dirt from the mutilated flesh that had previously been a functioning arm. "I think it stopped bleeding."

"Really?" Prussia tried to turn and look and was rewarded with a shooting pain. "Fuck!"

"I told you to be quiet, you're going to give us away." Hungary scolded, giving his arm a particularly hard prod.

"Fuck you." he hissed.

"Well the good news is it isn't broken."

"That means there's bad news." Prussia said. "I don't want bad news. That fucking asshole just tore my arm off. I don't want bad news."

"Too bad, this is your fault, now you're going to slow us down." Hungary told him. Prussia had no response, mostly because he knew she was right. "I think it's just dislocated."

"Oh well that's not bad at all." Prussia said sarcastically.

"Shut up, it's fixable."

"I don't think so. I'd rather walk around like this, actually, than let you-FUCK!" he cut himself off as Hungary jerked his arm back into its socket.

"Did I get it?" she asked innocently.

"Fuck you." Prussia grumbled, rolling his arm. It worked, though it still hurt like hell.

"Uh huh." Hungary said distractedly. She poked through the damaged supplies in the backpack that had probably saved his arm. "Hold still, will you?" She cut the rest of his ruined sleeve off and disentangled it from his arm.

He shoved his fingers through the bloody, torn hole in the jacket he'd been wearing until Hungary had torn it off him. Shame about the jacket.

While Hungary patched up the bleeding gash on his arm, he looked up at the two nations standing a few feet away, squinting against the sun.

"Speaking of stupid heroism…" he glared at Germany. "What the hell was that? What did I tell you? Repeatedly?"

"Oh leave him alone, he made himself useful." Hungary said good-naturedly, tying off the sterile bandage on his arm and turning to the ruined backpack.

"He could have gotten killed!" Prussia argued back, struggling to stand up.

"So could you." Hungary pulled at the hole in the pack. "If you pass out again I'm not carrying your sorry ass anywhere. You can just die here."

"I didn't pass out." Prussia snapped. "And it was different! It was my job to protect you, it was his job to get out of there as fast as possible."

"Please. You're both so alike."

Both Germans stared at her.

"Don't look at me like that." she scoffed, tossing the useless backpack away. "You're both cut from the same mold. Too ambitious for your own good. Not satisfied unless you're in the thick of things. Ridiculously stupid at times." She sighed and shoved whatever could be salvaged into another bag. "Which is impressive because I always thought Gilbert broke the mold. You're both stupid, and you both got hurt for it. Now I have to pick up your slack and you will _never stop owing me for that_. So shut up and grab a bag or I'm leaving you behind." She stood, throwing the backpack over her shoulder and marching off, pausing long enough to hand Italy his.

Prussia looked at Germany, who was much less used to Hungary's outbursts.

"We're not the same." he said.

"Agreed." Germany nodded, and picked up the last two backpacks.

"Give me one of those." Prussia protested, grabbing at them.

"When you stop falling over." Germany told him, pushing him back up. Stupid balance.

"Shut up and give me a bag."

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America stopped to catch his breath, gasping in the dry air. Grain swirled lazily around his knees, making his legs itch.

He felt like he was constantly looking over his shoulder. This arena was so open, so empty, anyone would see him coming a mile off. Of course, that meant he could see anything too, but his nerves didn't seem to believe him. He couldn't help but imagine someone - or something, you could never really tell with the Hunger Games - leaping from the swirling grass.

More than that, he was terrified that he'd end up out here all alone. England's heavy breathing in his ear was both reassuring and concerning. Yes, he was alive, but for how much longer?

He continued at a slower pace, lungs burning. He couldn't quite remember how long someone could go without water but he doubted it was very long. Sweat dripped down his face, staining the dark green shirt he wore. His jacket dragged in the grass, tied around the backpack hanging off his elbow.

He'd left England's where it was, partially because he was afraid that it wouldn't come free easily, and partially because even in the beating sun, England's skin was cold and clammy.

America swallowed painfully and continued walking, knowing that if he stopped now it could easily kill him.

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Switzerland tried not to let his annoyance and fear show through as he helped Liechtenstein up for the fourth time that hour.

"Are you alright?" he asked gruffly, as he had every time.

"Yah." she answered, as if following a script.

Switzerland felt the thousands of eyes on them and knew she might as well be. He hated someone he couldn't see watching him, someone who would see his every move, every expression that crossed his face, someone who would try at every turn to guess what he was thinking. It put his nerves a little too close to the edge.

The sparse forest had seemed like a good place to go at first. Full of trees, protected from the sun and the wind, had to be water, food of some sort, limited protection. But the lack of undergrowth just made it a graveyard of pillars, easy to hide in and easy to be seen through.

His empty hand clutched at his empty belt. A short knife, that's all he had. That was all. He might as well be unarmed.

Liechtenstein clutched her pack tightly. A few strips of dried meat, a plastic bottle for water, a small first-aid kit. Practically useless, although Switzerland knew that he shouldn't count anything, however small, as useless here. Especially when they had so little.

At the time, staying for the bloodbath had seemed like a ridiculous idea. He could never keep Liechtenstein safe from so many people fighting for so much there, and leaving her to run off on her own was just as bad. But now he regretted it. Everyone else was sure to have excellent weapons, throwing knives and bows and arrows and swords and spears… here he was with his stupid little six inch knife expecting to defend himself and Liechtenstein against all that. He was so _stupid_.

He was silently berating himself when Liechtenstein gave a sharp squeal. For a moment Switzerland thought she had tripped again, but the heavy thunk of metal on wood told him otherwise. He didn't bother to stop and look around, to find out where the attack had come from. He bundled Liechtenstein in front of him and ran, pushing her forward as fast as she would go, thankful she was not in her usual dresses and soft shoes.

Whoever it was must have been far away. Switzerland could hear the sound of running a long way off. Which meant whatever weapon they had was ranged. Just great.

He had to pull Liechtenstein to a stop as something flew past them, where they would have been had he not heard it coming.

He turned, cornered like a wild animal. It was a girl, just a few feet away, both hands occupied with something large and wooden. It snapped and she held it up, panting.

A crossbow, huge, sturdy, ranged. She'd been shooting bolts at them. Now one was aimed directly at Switzerland's chest. Why she hadn't shot yet was obvious.

She fiddled with it urgently. Switzerland knew crossbows, knew they were more complicated than they looked. And the girl holding this one clearly didn't know her way around one.

Had it just been him, he might have charged at her, knife in hand, and hoped for the best. But he couldn't just hope she's miss Liechtenstein. Even if he got away unscathed, the chances of her missing _both_ of them were slim.

But he had to do something, before she found the catch just beyond her finger. It would only be seconds now…

The girl found the catch. Switzerland did the only thing he could think of. He grabbed Liechtenstein's bag and held it over his chest.

He was only just fast enough. The bolt didn't stop, but it did slow down enough to save his life. The bolt shuttered to a stop against his ribcage but didn't go past, leaving his lungs and heart intact.

He took advantage of the girl's unease with the weapon. While she hurriedly tried to reload, he rushed at her, knife out. She gave up with the bolt and used the crossbow like a club, knocking him out of the way.

Dazed, he shook himself and scrambled back to his feet before she noticed Liechtenstein, still defenseless not twenty feet away. He'd dropped his knife but the girl had left her bolt in the ground. He grabbed it and thrust it at her throat.

He hadn't expected it to work. He'd expected her to stop him again, to block him with the crossbow. The bolt slid past the pale skin of her neck easily, like tissue paper.

He pushed himself off her and stumbled back, taken by surprise, terrified by the girl choking on her own blood. It seemed to take hours before her hands finally stopped scrabbling at her neck, fingernails full of blood and dirt.

Switzerland looked down at her, at the blood on his hands. Yes, he'd killed before. He couldn't get away with being a country, even a neutral one, without taking a few lives along the way. More than a few, that was for sure.

But this girl… she was so innocent. Forced into this Game just like him, just like his sister. Just trying to survive, trying to go home, to her parents, her siblings… did she have a boyfriend, a husband? She wasn't really a girl, a woman. Still so young. Maybe she had children waiting at home, children who would be watching him now, watching the man who had killed their mother.

"She..she wanted to kill us." Switzerland said, mostly to himself. Trying to convince himself he'd done the right thing, the only thing.

"She did." Liechtenstein said quietly. He little hand rested on his elbow. Eyes raised to his. He couldn't meet those eyes, wide and innocent and trusting. "You saved both of us, brother."

"She wanted to kill us." Switzerland said again, looking at the blood, the human blood on his hands.

He shook himself. In a few moments the canon would fire and the crossbow in the dead girl's - woman's - hands would be gone from the games permanently. He made himself move, made himself look at what he'd done.

He went back to another place in his mind, one he used in the thick of war, one he used when the blood and gore became too much. When the ache of destroyed territory wouldn't fade, when he couldn't remember if the blood on his hands and face and arms was his or not.

He pried the crossbow from her hands and checked her pockets for anything of value. When he'd established that she had nothing else he could use, he backed off. The canon fired.

He couldn't help but watch as the hovercraft appeared out of nowhere and took her away. They'd clean her up, bring her back to her District in a rough wooden box, so her family could mourn her. Could curse his name.

"Come on Lili."

* * *

"What the hell was that?"

"The wind, Lovi."

"I told you not to call me that! And how do you know?"

"Because I know what wind sounds like." Spain said, looking around curiously as if this was some goddamn fieldtrip.

"How do you expect us to survive out here?" Romano demanded suddenly. Neither of them had so much as a thumbtack, a crumb.

"We'll manage." Spain said, almost dreamily. He seemed lost in his own little world.

Romano grumbled at him and turned back around, stomping through the grass. That's all there was out here, soft green grass and boulders. Weirdest arena ever.

They'd probably starve to death hidden under a rock. A stupid, stupid _rock_.

Romano aimed a kick at one of the boulders and shouted out, certain he'd just broken his foot.

"Lovi?"

"Fuck off, bastard!" Romano yelled, clutching his foot, cursing at the offending gray mass.

"Lovi, it'll be okay, don't get worked up-" Spain tried to calm him. But he was not in the mood for calming.

"I'm not worked up! I'm fucking pissed off!" Romano shouted, flexing his injured foot. "I hate this place. I hate this arena, I hate these rocks, I hate the Hunger Games. I fucking hate PANEM!" His voice only got louder.

Spain opened his mouth - probably to say something stupid again - and paused.

"What's that noise?"

"See I told you! It's not the stupid wind-"

"Shhhh!" Spain hushed him, head tilted to one side, listening. Romano saw his eyes widen.

"What-?"

"Run. RUN!" Spain grabbed his arm and pulled, weaving through the rocks.

"Are those hooves?" Romano panted, looking over his shoulder.

But Spain was too busy cursing in Spanish to answer him. "Come on, Lovi, faster!"

Romano was still trying to see exactly what they were running from. Was that a cloud on the horizon, or…

"Are those fucking _bulls_?" he shouted over the growing noise.

"_Encierro_." Spain said breathlessly. "The Running of the Bulls."

"You're fucking nuts! What the hell?" Romano shouted, looking over his shoulder. "They're gaining on us!"

"Then run faster!" Spain said.

"You're enjoying this!"

"Not true." Spain laughed, looking over his shoulder again.

"How many are there?" Romano demanded.

"Probably twelve. At least, that's the traditional number."

"You're fucking nuts." Romano gasped again, running out of air. Fucking bulls.

"Come on, come on!" Spain cried, pushing Romano in front of him, forcing him to run faster. The damned bulls were on their heels now, snorting down their necks.

Romano was running as hard as he could, but he was running out of steam. "What now, fucking bull runner?"

"Come on." Spain grabbed his wrist and they twisted through the rocks, going almost parallel to the bulls.

"What the hell-?"

"Just trust me!" Spain shouted gleefully.

Romano decided that he really didn't have a better option.

"This way, this way…" Spain dragged him through the maze of rocks. They were getting closer together, banging into his shoulders as he ran.

The sound of hooves died away.

"They're gone." Spain panted. He was smiling way too much.

"Oh thank god." Romano gasped, throwing himself on the ground. "What the fuck was that?"

"Amazing." Spain said, doubled over, hands on his knees. "I can't believe how much I missed that."

"Running for your life?" Romano demanded, rolling over so he could glare at Spain properly. Spain grinned down at him.

"Something like that."

* * *

**AND IT'S STILL ONLY THE FIRST DAY!**

**Yes. Running of the Bulls. I'm fucking crazy like that.**

**Anyway, now the only ones who are wandering around mysteriously are the humans (who happen to be all girls…. I didn't plan that well…), Japan, and Denmark. They'll show up later. Probably.**

**No one REALLY needs Sponsors yet, but… well I'm much more likely to use sponsors if you review and tell me to. Mwahaha. (I would have made it based solely around that but that would mean not writing anything until some sort of cut-off point and I COULDN'T HANDLE THAT.)**

**See you next week my lovelies. People will be dying then. (Why does this chapter feel like filler? It feels like filler. Maybe because no one got hurt…?)**

**Turns out the forum is exhausting. To sponsor use the poll on my profile ONLY. I'll get around to either updating the forum or deleting it. Whatever.**

**RnR because it makes you awesome.**


	12. Chapter 12

**I HATE THIS CHAPTER.**

**It sucks. Peh.

* * *

**

Breathing was becoming a chore. Every aching breath dried his throat, mouth, and nose just a little more. It felt like he could either stop breathing completely or dry up like a piece of old leather. Right now both options were equally appealing.

The sun was nearing the horizon, but it hadn't cooled down. It glared in his face, blinding him. And that put him on edge, because if someone suddenly came out of nowhere he wouldn't even see them until they were stabbing him in the face-

England shifted on his back, breath rattling in his ear. America squared his jaw. If England could manage, so could he.

But he was so damn _thirsty_. How long could you go without water? Three days? What about in heat, when he was sweating hard and the air was drying him out with each breath?

Somehow he didn't think it was very long.

His back itched with dried blood plastered to his shirt. What about England? Blood was liquid right? Didn't that mean he was losing water? How long would he last?

Suddenly America was overtaken by how unfair it was. How he was dragging himself over this cruel landscape in search of a drop of dirty water while Panem sat drinking fine wine and eating peeled grapes and-

His stomach gave an uncomfortable moan.

_Shut up you_. He didn't need his stomach giving him problems too. But even if he found water, how long could he go without food? He hadn't seen much to eat.

He nearly tripped. Over what, he wasn't sure, although he had a sneaking suspicion it was just his own exhausted feet. He took the hint.

He forced himself to take the time and peel England from his back before he collapsed in the scratchy grass, groaning.

England sat leaning back on his hands, looking down at America, recovered enough to look almost amused. America tried not to glare at him.

"Well it could be worse." he said.

"How so?"

"We could be dead." England shrugged.

"I guess." America rolled over, looking at the reddening sky.

"We could be separated." England added.

America turned his head to look at him. He was leaning back, face turned up to the soft swirls of cloud in the darkening sky.

"They'll be announcing the deaths soon." he said.

America looked up, trying not to imagine the clouds as gaping wounds in the bloody sky. Who would be featured there tonight? He ran through a list of anyone who would have stayed at the bloodbath. Russia, for sure, and Belarus, who probably hadn't left his side. Probably Prussia, he was too cocky to leave, and Germany, even if he was about as good as America at fighting sans black powder. Would Italy have stayed with Germany, gone to fight with him at the Cornucopia? No doubt they were together now, unless of course Italy was dead, in which case-

America shook his head. This was getting him nowhere.

Something pressed on his elbow. He looked down at the camouflaged backpack on his arm he'd completely forgotten about.

He sat up suddenly, tearing the zipper down.

"There's probably not water in there." England warned.

America ignored him, pawing through the valuables. After a few minutes he gave up. England was right. Just an empty bottle.

He sighed and emptied the backpack on the ground, figuring he might as well see what he did have.

One bone dry water bottle, one tiny dropper bottle of iodine, a sleeping bag, a first aid kit twice the size of his outstretched hand, a lumpy bag that could have been anything, a handful of rations, a flashlight, and a multi-tool. Not bad.

"What's this?" he asked, holding up the lumpy bag.

"Looks like a tent."

He pulled the drawstring and opened the bag, looking inside. "It's yellow."

England reached for it and he handed it over.

"Wow. It really is yellow." England said, tugging at the luminescent fabric.

"Should we risk it?" America asked, looking curiously through the rations.

"Maybe not tonight." England set down the lumpy bag. "I don't think we'll need it anyway."

America nodded. "What's this?"

England looked at the object America held up.

"It's a ration cracker. The kind that they give people during natural disasters."

America broke it in half, looking at the dry, tasteless biscuit through the translucent wrapper. "It's edible?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Just give me it." England said testily. America did so happily, taking more interest in the plastic bag in his other hand.

"Thank God. Meat." he said, mouth watering. He forced his way into the bag, pulling free a strip of dried beef and tearing into it greedily. "I have never missed meat so much." he mumbled, mouth full.

"You had it twelve hours ago." England reminded him, taking a bite of the ration cracker thing.

America made a face. "So?" He tore off another chunk and offered the bag to England, who shook his head.

"I'll stick to the cracker."

America shrugged and stuffed the rest of the dried meat in his mouth.

* * *

England watched America fight to chew his mouthful. He nibbled the end of the cracker in his hand. His appetite had failed him, especially in the face of eating last-resort rations (really, they called _his_ cooking bad…), but turning away food now would probably be tantamount to suicide later.

His side produced a dull ache, dulling his senses. It wasn't so bad now, the bleeding had at least stopped.

America yawned and laid back in the grass, stretched out as far as he could manage. The heat of the day hadn't faded yet, and sweat bubbled on his forehead.

"What time do you think it is?" he muttered sleepily.

"Does it matter?"

America shrugged, closing his eyes. "Pro'lly not. I kinda wonder what day it is though."

"July 1st." England told him.

America opened his eyes again. "Damn it."

"What?"

"Missed Canada's birthday again. I told myself I'd remember this year."

England chuckled and looked up again. He'd done that himself more than once. Maybe if they ever got out of this mess, one day they could-

England jerked forward and looked down at his ex-colony, who had fallen asleep in the few moments of silence. His side gave a sharp stab that he ignored.

_Idiot!_ he silently chastised America. _I can't believe you did that. I can't believe I didn't catch it._

Because America had said Canada. Not Mathew. Canada. On live television. England resisted the urge to smack him awake.

If there was one thing sure to get them all killed, it was mentioning their true identities. Even a mention of the existence of the old countries might land them on the end of a Gamemaker's demented toy. The outfits had been different - a device to taunt and tease the countries into submission. After Katniss and her MockingJay Panem had been very careful not to let any of the tributes create any idea of rebellion. And what better way to spark discontent than nationality? Didn't he know that better than anyone?

* * *

Italy leaned on his shoulder. Had his head not been pounding, he might have had a problem with it. For now, he allowed it.

Germany watched Prussia and Hungary continue their heated argument. He wasn't even sure what it was about anymore. It seemed like they just wanted to argue.

He supposed tensions were high after a hot day of trying to not die. The lack of water or fresh food didn't help. Germany turned his tiny ration over, a square of lumpy district bread. Italy nibbled his and made a face.

"You're not going to eat it, are you?"

"Do you want it?" Italy asked innocently, holding up the bread.

"Eat it." Germany told him. "This isn't the time or place to be picky."

Italy lowered his arm again and continued to stare at the bread.

"Ludwig! Don't you think Elizabeta's over-reacting?" Prussia shouted to him suddenly.

"I don't care." Germany said, taking a bite of the bread.

"See, it doesn't matter." Prussia used his neutral comment to his own advantage, which didn't surprise Germany in the slightest.

"Ludwig he wants to go find Ivan and make sure he stays crippled." Hungary turned to Germany as well.

"No."

"No what?" Prussia demanded.

"No."

Hungary said something smug and then Prussia retaliated angrily and the argument continued. Germany bit off more bread. Italy picked his apart.

The anthem played. Hungary and Prussia argued through it, mouths working furiously against the sound of trumpets. The sky lit up with the faces of the dead. Hungary and Prussia fell silent, looking up.

Four faces. Four numbers. Gone forever.

"No one we know then." Prussia said dismissively. They all knew what he meant. No nations. Just humans.

But Germany continued to stare at the sky, at the darkened screen that had shown the faces of the dead. A brutal, bloody death. In the end the only thing they got was a number. The losing District. A god-damn number.

A long time ago, there was a point where he would have fought Panem and everything he was doing. He knew this bothered him more than the other, that it was too personal, too familiar. That he could understand what Panem did and why - he hated that he could. He would have fought harder than anyone.

Now, the anger bubbled as if behind a sheet of glass. He could see it, know it was there, but couldn't feel it. The heat couldn't reach him. A hundred years spent alone, humanized, had stolen his ambition, his vigor.

He had volunteered to protect Italy. That was all, really. He would make sure Italy left alive. Panem had won the war. He didn't want to fight anymore. Too many people died when he fought. It was never worth it.

Hungary and Prussia started arguing again.

* * *

The seal showed in the sky again. Four dead. Probably a record number, for the bloodbath. Usually at least ten were killed in the first day.

Russia mumbled in his sleep, turning over stiffly. Belarus turned to look at him, spear so tight in her hands they'd gone numb. She felt guilty, for leaving her brother. Letting him be hurt. The girl would pay for distracting her. They all would. She'd make sure of it.

But for now she could only watch over Russia, guard him in his troubled sleep, while his leg healed. It wouldn't be long before his was back on his feet. Until then she'd watch over him. Make sure no further harm would come to him.

Her mind drifted, briefly, to the boy from her District, the one chosen for a tribute. She'd seen his face in the sky, seen the number 1 that was all that was left of him. There was a spark of something she hadn't felt in a long time. Pity? No… more like… sympathy. His little brother was alone now, the same one she'd scared, the one that had clung to him when his name was drawn. Where was that little boy now, the one that reminded her of Latvia? He must have seen his brother die. Did the sight haunt him, keep him awake, give him nightmares? Was there anyone to calm him the way Ukraine had calmed her and Russia as children?

Belarus reached out to stroke Russia's hair. He looked so peaceful in his sleep. Not the blind mask he wore for the others, the one he hid behind, the one General Winter had taught him. He seemed… calm. Happy.

If she had to, Belarus would kill every other person in the arena, country or not, to see that expression on Russia's face when he was awake.

* * *

Denmark unfolded his legs stiffly, moving for the first time in the last four hours.

_Never sitting in a tree that long again_. he grumbled silently, stretching.

As soon as the gong had sounded, he'd run for the sparse trees twenty feet from the ring of tributes and climbed the tallest, thickest one he could find in the first ten seconds. There he'd stayed for the majority of the day.

He'd seen America make the first kill, and later drag England away, towards the thick brown grass towards the South. He saw Russia beat his way through the mass of tributes and turn on the first countries he came on, Hungary and Prussia. The exciting battle that followed, ending with wounds on both sides, although for being outnumbered Russia faired pretty damn well. Hungary and Germany dragged Prussia off to the North, where Denmark supposed Italy was waiting for them.

Spain and Romano had darted off toward the lighter grass, disappearing from the bloodbath without any pursuers. Switzerland and Liechtenstein did the same thing, running instead right under Denmark.

That left a wounded Russia and panicking Belarus with a handful of girls at the Cornucopia.

The lack of Careers made itself known. The Cornucopia wasn't picked clean like it usually was. With the majority of tributes countries that had fled long before now, the girls seemed overly cautious and anxious. The largest alliance was between three girls, the rest seemed on their own.

They eventually left, probably in search of water, separating and fighting as they went. A boring bloodbath, to be sure. But Denmark was sure Panem knew this would be the most interesting Hunger Games yet.

Belarus eventually helped Russia to his feet and away, leaving a crimson trail behind them.

The Cornucopia was left alone, supplies still littering the golden horn.

So Denmark dropped down from his tree, walking calmly past the more useless items. There was something in the horn that had caught his eye.

Unopposed, he reached the Cornucopia. There were still plenty of bags and weapons to choose from. The Careers and countries would probably be back before long to finish picking it clean. But for now…

He pulled something free from the pile in the horn. Something clearly meant for him, a nudge and a wink from Panem.

The heavy axe glinted in the sun, a few inches taller than he was.

Oh yes. This would be an interesting Game to be sure.

* * *

**I STILL HATE THIS CHAPTER.**

**God it's so horrible. Whatever. Next chapter has action in it, I swear…**

**Polls have NOT been updated because I'm still trying to figure out how to use them and it's annoying to refresh and just... well check back tomorrow...**


	13. Chapter 13

**I DON'T HAVE TIME TO BE FUNNY SO HERE'S THE DEAL:**

**I'M STUPID. THUS MY KEYBOARD IS BROKEN. A LONG STORY FOR ANOTHER TIME, WHEN I HAVE MORE OF IT. JUST KNOW I'M STUPID AND DON'T LEARN AND THEY'RE SHIPPING MY COMPUTER OFF FOR A WEEK TO FIX IT BECAUSE ****THEY'RE**** DUMB SO THAT MEANS NO COMPUTER FOR A WEEK WHICH MEANS LAG FOR CHAPTERS.**

**My laptop is busted. Sorta. I have a desktop computer that I don't like using and my mom's computer if I got really desperate. But the truth is next Friday there may not be an update.**

**Which brings us to the next problem. I am lazy. I am so lazy, I play Sims in college classes. While I should be actually focusing. So now I've got a midterm in three weeks on American history (way less interesting that world history, damn you Alfred) and an essay due next Wednesday and like three hundred pages of **_**The Grapes of Wrath**_** to read this week… Look this isn't a list of the crap I have to do instead of fanfic. To the point: updates may need to be pushed to once every other week and/or my be very short for a while. I'm sorry, that's the truth of it. **

**Which is why this chapter is so short. . arrr I'm sorry! You guys are too awesome for me to half-ass this but the truth is that's what I did. Now my mom's breathing down my neck about 'cleaning my room so you can actually tell there's a floor down there and not a clogged black hole'. Neato, I break the laws of physics 8D.**

**Anyway, sorry my loves.

* * *

**

"Alfred."

America groaned and reached for the blanket, mumbled something incoherent.

"Alfred wake up." Someone was shaking his arm. "Get up you big stupid git, I'm serious!"

"Go away." America rasped. He felt like he was coming down with something. His throat was so dry. Was there another recession coming on? He really hoped-

"ALFRED GET UP."

America cracked open one eye and immediately jolted into a sitting position. Right. He wasn't home. He wasn't sick.

England was scowling at him.

"Oh good."

"Sorry." America mumbled. His muscles protested angrily as he stretched them out.

England let him finish and handed him the backpack he'd taken the day before.

"I think we should go back to the cornucopia."

America slowly settled the backpack on his shoulders.

"Tell me, when, during the night, did you go insane?"

"I'm serious!"

"That's what worries me."

"Listen Alfred, the fatalities are the lowest they've ever been for the Hunger Games. The bloodbath didn't even happen. There's only four dead." England pressed.

"Four?" America asked distractedly, fixing the straps on the pack.

"There might still be supplies in the Cornucopia. There might be _water_."

America thought about that. "I guess I could go back-"

"Alfred you're not leaving me out here. I'm fine." England interrupted him.

"But if there's something at the Cornucopia, you're not the first one to think it. There's got to be some Careers left guarding it." Alfred reasoned.

England was looking in the general direction of the Cornucopia.

"It think the question is, who is it?"

America paused. Would the countries have converged? Maybe they were there now, waiting for him and England… or maybe they were just waiting in ambush. Who knew? They'd shown loyalty in small doses. America couldn't trust any one of them didn't want him dead.

"We need water." England reminded him. America swallowed dryly. He was right.

"Fine. Fine!" he gave in. "We'll go back. For water. Then we're leaving again."

"Deal." England grunted, steadying himself on his knee and making to stand up. America reached out to help him, but he was already on his feet.

"Are you sure you're alright?" America asked, standing up next to him.

"It wasn't that bad a hit. I'll be fine. Go on, move." England urged him on. America kept his eye on him but moved under his direction.

England was a very good liar.

* * *

Was this all they would do? The entire Games? Run?

Liechtenstein's wrist in one hand. The crossbow in his other. Both clenched tight from fear and anger. A pause, a bolt fired. Reload, use both feet, one hand, don't let of Liechtenstein. Run.

Their pursuers crashed through the trees behind him, unused to the dry ground, the dead leaves that decorated it. Their weapons mercifully limited to hand-to-hand combat.

The trees were thinning. Switzerland ran for the clear land, the ground that mercifully rose under his feet. Open ground, high ground, would give him the edge. He could aim clearly there.

The bolts clattered against his hip. He fought the urge to put a hand on them, make sure they didn't tear through the flimsy fabric bag that kept them in place.

The trees ended and he was forced to slow down due to the incline of the land. Liechtenstein panted painfully behind him, struggling to keep up, being half-dragged up the incline.

They didn't leave the trees. They stood on the edges, knowing the trees gave them an edge. Switzerland focused on what he was doing again, keeping the crossbow pointed back.

Liechtenstein fell. He turned, dropping the crossbow and grabbing her wrist with two hands to keep her from sliding all the way down the hill.

They took advantage of his lapse in attention. He scrambled for the crossbow, leveled it with his chest. Frozen, violet eyes met his. Both hands went to the latch that was slightly too far for one hand. He waited, muscles pulled tight, to see what would happen.

Russia moved first.

* * *

All four of them were dragging their feet. The temperature was too hot, too unbearable. It wouldn't take much to set them all off.

Why, then, was Hungary surprised that it was Prussia who caused it?

"I'm fucking thirsty."

"Shut up Gilbert."

"You shut up. Didn't you grab any water when you were running around almost getting killed by Ivan?" Prussia argued back, voice grating dryly on his throat.

"As I remember it was you almost getting killed." Hungary snapped.

"'Cuse I saved your life."

"You got in my way. Just shut up, it's too hot for this."

"Well I'm still fucking thirsty."

"Suck a fucking button, Gil, we're all thirsty."

Italy's stomach growled loudly.

"I'm hungry." he whined quietly.

"If you'd eat you wouldn't be." Prussia snapped at him.

"Don't yell at him." Germany argued with his brother.

"'S not my fault he's an idiot."

"You're an idiot. You've always been an idiot."

"Am not!"

"How I survived my childhood is honestly a mystery."

"You were getting in stupid fights and losing! If it weren't for me you'd be dead-!"

"Anyone else hear that?"

Italy's comment went unheard.

"You're the one who got in stupid fights! You-"

"Who are you to say _I_ got in stupid fights! Mr. I'm-Gonna-Rule-The-Whole-Damn-World-"

"At least I didn't fade away like some half-assed third world-!"

"I didn't fade away! As I remember it _you_ took my status as-"

"Fuck that. I just finished the job. You were as good as dead anyway."

"Hey, guys, shut up a second." Hungary said loudly, listening to something in the distance.

"Yah because you went and started the worst war in history-!"

"Maybe if I wasn't stuck in a hole the world help dig me into-!"

"HEY SHUT UP."

The two brothers fell silent, looking at her.

"What?"

"'sup with you?"

"Listen." Hungary said, pressing a finger to her lips.

"What the fuck is that?" Prussia asked, digging in his ear. "Sounds like… what the hell?"

"Look, there!" Italy cried suddenly, pointing in the distance.

"Holy crap." Hungary muttered, turning to look and taking a step back out of shock.

"That's a wall of fire." Prussia said unnecessarily.

"No shit." Hungary snapped at him. "Well what are you just standing there for? Run, damnit!"

Prussia didn't need to be told twice. He took off the way they'd come.

"Germany, Italy, come on!" Hungary urged. The crackling sound of a forest fire drew closer.

"R..right." Germany pulled Italy's wrist and turned away from the wall of flames. Hungary bolted after them, looking over her shoulder every few seconds.

The fire was gaining on them. The wind had changed direction, was blowing the flames directly at them. Tendrils of smoke reached them, leaving them gasping for air.

There was a smell to it, something familiar. Hungary remember it but couldn't identify it. It sent a chill up her spine, whatever it was.

She scanned the area quickly, making sure they were all running, all keeping ahead of the fire, staying relatively together. As she squinted through the thickening smoke at Germany and Italy, realization struck.

The smell… it was burning flesh. Burning human flesh.

She choked, as if recognizing the smell made it harder to breathe. Any body caught in the flames wouldn't carry the smell this far. It had been engineered in, by the Gamemakers. This smell was designed to lower their moral, affect them mentally. Weaken them.

She knew it was an attack specifically directed at one of them. The only one who would be haunted by the memory of burning, of fires stacked high with bodies.

The one most likely to blame himself for a third world war.

The one bogged by guilt.

Italy's voice cut through the smoky air.

"Germany!"

* * *

**Yes, a real cliffhanger chapter. Plus you'll have to wait longer to get the next chapter… Gosh I'm so horrible.**

**I'm liking this chapter more than the last one, but still… I feel like my writing has taken a turn downward. Bleh.**

**Yes, I am trying to give them each a specific memory. Some are good and some are bad. Whatever Panem thinks will affect them mentally.**

**If anyone's got any suggestions for that sort of thing among other countries, let me know. Because I'm running low XP.**

**For those of you who, for whatever reason, don't know what the fire's about…**

**The bodies of the Holocaust victims (usually from the 'showers', or chambers where they killed people with cyanide) were burned in furnaces. The worst part was the people shoveling the bodies into the fires were the living victims, so they usually had to push their own family members into the flames. A terrible time.**

**(Polls still aren't running. I'm busy, okay? You're lucky you got a chapter. And I still don't know how to use the sponsors anyway….)**

**Besides the last line, if you notice any country names in the dialogue, please tell me. It's very difficult to switch back and forth so much. I almost always write the country name by accident and then have to go back and fix it.**

**And NOOOO. It is now past midnight. This chapter is officially late. Arrr. I tried. Sorry folks, I'll see you in a week maybe….**


	14. Chapter 14

**This is what happens when I don't have a deadline. I disappear for weeks.**

**I suppose I could say that I've had school and a midterm and my computer troubles but the truth is I had plenty of time to work on this and I just didn't. Because I am lazy as shit.**

**So here it is, very, very late, and I promise to stick to my Friday schedule from now on.**

**Forum/polls updated just because I think you'll want them this time around….**

***EDIT* Removed the forum because it was unnecessary and redundant. You can vote on the poll on my profile. *END EDIT***

**

* * *

**

The girl was so damn fast. He didn't even see her until it was too late, until there was a sharp pain in his chest. Blood bubbled up his throat, choking him. His finger twitched a moment too late, but his aim wasn't off, it was never off.

Cries of anguish. Cries of pain. Two bodies crumpled, one heart still thumping wildly, the other weakening, fading.

A girl. She was a girl. He couldn't have killed her, killed a girl, someone's little sister… Because that… that would make him no better than her. A heartless murderer. Cruel.

He didn't want to think that she had attacked first, that she had probably killed him. She was a girl, a country, a little sister. Even if she did deserve to die, he shouldn't have been the one to do it.

"Vash! Don't… I don't know what to do, what to…" Liechtenstein was fumbling with his jacket, trying to peel it away.

A shadow fell on the both of them. Liechtenstein looked up and froze. Switzerland could just make out the figure blocking out the sky.

"Don't hurt her." he pleaded, words choked with blood. "Just… don't hurt her."

There was a pause, as Russia looked down at him, watched him bleeding out in the grass. Suddenly, he moved. Liechtenstein flinched.

"Here."

She hesitated for an instant and took the first-aid kit in his hand.

* * *

"You smell that?" America made a face.

England paused. "Smell what?"

"I dunno… smells like… burning. Meat?" America sniffed the air again and shivered. "It's nasty, whatever it is."

"Maybe someone's cooking nearby." England said, twirling his knife by its handle.

"Maybe I'm just imagining it. The heat and all." America shrugged. "You smell anything?"

"I don't know… now you've got me imagining things." England shrugged stiffly and kept walking. America stayed a few steps behind him, watching carefully. But he seemed steady enough.

"Are we almost there?"

"You tell me, you were walking yesterday." England sighed.

"I was distracted."

"Well so was I. I think so, anyway."

America groaned and sagged tiredly, licking his lips compulsively. They were chapped and bleeding in the heat. "I'm tired."

England looked back over his shoulder. "You'll manage."

America groaned and looked up at the horizon again.

"Hey, that's it, isn't it?" he said excitedly, perking up. "The Cornucopia?"

"Looks like it."

"Finally!" America darted forward, previous exhaustion forgotten. "Maybe there's water there! Or decent food!"

"Careful!" England shouted after him. "You don't know who might be around here!"

"There's no one around, it's perfectly safe-" America stopped mid-sentence.

"I'm afraid you're wrong about that one." Something sharp and heavy pressed against his neck, just above his collarbone.

"America!" England panted, moving to help.

"No closer, I thought that would be clear."

"What do you want?" America demanded angrily.

"Well this is the Hunger Games, the first thing that comes to mind is 'to survive'…" The hand on his arm tightened, holding him in place.

A male voice. A country. Who though?

"Den…Axel?"

"Surprised you recognized me." he chuckled. "Can't say I'm pleased to see you."

* * *

Something snagged his foot and he fell, catching himself with his bad arm.

Prussia groaned and rolled off his shoulder, trying to massage the ache out of it. The smoke wasn't helping.

He dragged himself to his feet and looked around, having lost his sense of direction. It occurred to him that he was alone.

"Hungary!" He shouted, squinting through the haze. "Germany! Italy!"

No one answered. He stumbled forward a few steps, pulling his shirt up over his nose and mouth. It helped a little, but not much.

He wasn't panicking. Panicking was for lesser people. People that didn't know what they were doing or what was going on or where the fuck everyone had gone. He had complete control over the situation. He was just… uncomfortable.

"Hungary!" he shouted again. His voice teetered out and he broke into a coughing fit, eyes tearing up. He decided that no good would come from suffocating.

He picked a random direction, hoped for the best, and ran, one hand holding his shirt over his nose, the other pressed against his side to keep his shoulder from moving.

* * *

"What are you doing?" America said, leaning back to keep the blade away from his neck.

"Keeping myself alive. Who am I supposed to trust out here? Not everyone has allies to fall back on."

His words were bitter. But he was right, there were no other Nordics here, no old friends. At least America had England, someone he could trust.

"We aren't going to hurt you though." America said carefully. "You can trust us-"

"Right." Denmark laughed coldly. "And when things get tense you'll just wait until I fall asleep and cut my throat. I'm not trusting anyone."

America opened his mouth to argue but was cut off by a small explosion of cussing from the other side of the Cornucopia. Denmark released him and turned to see what new problem had emerged.

"Ga-What the hell, stupid, get that out of my face." Prussia shoved the ax to the side.

"What happened to you?" England asked.

"The fucking Games happened, what do you think?" Prussia spat. "You idiots don't smell that?

"Smell what?" Denmark looked at a loss. Prussia didn't really look like a threat, but with Prussia, one learned to expect the unexpected.

"For fucks sake- THAT!" Prussia pointed at the sky behind him.

"Wow. How did we miss that." America said, dumbfounded.

"We were a little preoccupied." England reasoned distractedly.

A heavy cloud of smoke hovered a few feet over the treetops, edging towards them slowly. Now that he bothered to listen, America could hear the faint crackling of flames.

"Weren't you with a group?" Denmark asked suddenly. "Where are they?"

Prussia looked around. "Damn it to hell… I have no idea. Why aren't they here?" he exploded suddenly.

"You mean they're still back there? In the fire?" America asked.

"Probably." Prussia growled, kicking the Cornucopia and shouting out when his foot made contact with the dense metal.

"Alfred no."

"What?" America asked defensively.

"You've got that look on your face."

"What look?"

"That look that means you're about to do something stupid and heroic."

"I'm not doing anything. I'm standing here."

"You want to go make sure no one needs help."

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to."

America scowled and crossed his arms. "Well what's wrong with helping people?"

"Nothing, unless you're in the Hunger Games. This isn't the place to play hero." England said sternly. "They could turn on you in a second. Look at Axel. No offense."

"None taken." Denmark said distractedly.

"En-Arthur, I'm not just going to stand here." America argued. "It's Ludwig and Feliciano and Elizabeta that are stuck back there, right?"

Prussia froze with his hand pulled back to hit the Cornucopia. "Yah."

"Don't do that." England sighed.

"Shhh! I could use some entertainment. Show the stupid horn you mean business." Denmark said gleefully.

Prussia dropped his fist. "If the married couple is done arguing, anyone got water?"

"I wish." America muttered, licking his lips dryly.

"There was a little in the Cornucopia." Denmark said casually.

Both America and Prussia bolted for it. They hit the twenty-foot opening at the same time.

"There's no water here."

"I said there was." Denmark said, shaking the gallon bottle. It sloshed loudly against the plastic sides.

* * *

"Come on, I haven't had anything to drink in two days!" America begged. "Share a little!"

"Fuck you, I just ran through a damn fire. Think I've had anything to drink since we got here?" Prussia demanded angrily. America turned on him.

"I've been dragging him under the stupid sun, at least you've had shade." America argued heatedly, jerking his thumb at England. England sighed and turned to Denmark.

"I'll trade you a knife for half your water." England said over the shouting.

"I got my arm torn off by a psychotic Russian-"

"I've got a knife." Denmark said calmly.

"Because you're stupid and pick fights-"

"A throwing knife?" England asked.

"I do not! I was defending myself, you're the ass who starts stupid fights-"

"What's the difference?" Denmark asked curiously.

"I haven't started a pointless fight in my life-"

"It's balanced for throwing. America picked it up in a few days, it's not hard…" England hefted the knife.

"That's just a lie. Anyway, how long's that been, four…five hundred years-"

"Deal. You got a bottle?" Denmark said after a moment of thought.

"So?"

"Yah." England handed off the knife and held the bottle under Denmark's to catch the flow. "Was this the only water in the Game?"

"I think I saw a few of the others grab some." Denmark said, pulling back the bottle when he judged half of it to be transferred. "I imagine there's a source somewhere out there."

"I haven't seen it. But I suppose you're right." England took a swig of the water. "Alfred! Come here and get some water!"

America stopped mid-sentence and turned around as if in disbelief.

"What?"

"Just come here." England said sharply, holding out the bottle. America pounced on it and turned it up, guzzling it.

"Calm down! Ration it or we'll be in the same situation as before!" England pulled on his arm. America finally pulled the bottle away, sighing happily.

"That's better." he mumbled.

England took the bottle back and screwed the cap on tightly. They had maybe a quarter of a gallon left. They'd have to make it last.

There was a shout from the Cornucopia. America turned around to look, allowing England to see past him.

Prussia pulled himself back out of the Cornucopia. "There's nothing in here." he muttered in disgust.

"Obviously. I would have taken it." Denmark said, taking a sip of his own water. "It's the lowest I've ever seen it, actually."

Prussia scrambled out of the gold horn. "It's closed off at the end, I didn't know that. Always thought it ended where it hit the ground."

"Really?" America went closer to look.

England looked up at the trees. "Do you think the fire's going to reach here?" he asked no one in particular.

"It slowed down, the Gamemakers must have some sort of reason for it." Prussia looked up again.

"It's the Gamemaker's?" England asked.

"Duh. That smell doesn't come from any natural fire. Not that long anyway." Prussia made a face. "Stupid Gamemakers."

"I'd keep quiet if I were you." England warned. He looked over the trees and tried to judge how far off the fire was. A mile, give or take? He used to be so much better at judging distance…

He rubbed his eyes tiredly and stretched. "Alfred, do you still have that tent- where'd they go?"

Denmark looked up. "They were right there."

"Well they aren't now!" England snapped. He scanned the area, looking for the familiar mop of blond hair. "Alfred!"

But both America and Prussia had vanished.

* * *

**First death. Oh noes~**

**Yes you're all devastated Belarus died. Gosh.**

**Anyway, nice plot-moving chapter, there was the first death and the first interaction of the countries outside their groups. And since I spent so long on it I re-worked it and so I like it much better than the last few chapters…**

**For sponsors… For right I'll be deciding what gets sent when, it just depends on how many votes people have.**

**See you Friday, I promise this time.**

**RnR for loves. I get depressed if no one reviews and then I kill countries off and no one wants that, right?**

…**right?**


	15. Chapter 15

**Okay first.**

**What the hell. Do you guys really have nothing better to do? 100. Reviews. This story does not deserve 100 reviews. This story does not deserve 5 reviews.**

**SECONDLY**

**Haha… Hi… guys… *cough* so I didn't update last week… I have reasons. Life. And I was busy, and the PSATs and College and-**

**Lies: I was busy**

**Truth: I am incompetent, can't manage my time, and this chapter was **_**really, really**__**hard to write**_**.**

**Like incredibly hard. I did math homework to avoid writing it. Yah. So I sat down Thursday night after watching Night of Too Many Stars (because I evidently have that kind of time) like "Chapter, prepare to be written" and this chapter was like "We'll see about that." and then I was like "You know what chapt-I'm tired." And then I went to bed.**

**And then Friday afternoon I sat down like "Okay you stupid chapter. I'm writing you."**

**And then I took a nap for seven hours.**

* * *

"Which way now?"

"If I knew that would we be here?"

America coughed through his shirt, held up over his nose with one hand. "So you have no idea?"

"Of course I do! I just need to think…" Prussia turned on the spot.

"Right."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That….you don't know where you're going."

"I do too! I know exactly where we are!"

"Do you hear something?" America cocked his head to the side, listening.

"Shut up, I'm trying to think."

"Seriously, I hear something-"

"Shut up I can't-FUCK!"

Something exploded from the direction America had been looking and collided with Prussia.

"I found you! Where did you go, we couldn't find you and then there was this problem and I couldn't see anything and what happened to your arm?"

"Hi Feliciano." America said, looking down at them.

"Get off me." Prussia threatened.

"Oh hi America Prussia do you know where-"

"GET OFF ME."

"Told you I heard something." America watched as Italy scrambled to his feet before Prussia killed him.

Italy held his hand down tentatively to Prussia to help him up. Prussia swatted it away angrily and used his good arm to pull himself up with America's pant leg.

"Where the hell did you come from?"

"That way-no…that way. I don't know. But I couldn't find anyone and then I heard you so-"

"You don't know where Ludwig or Elizebeta are?"

"Ludwig went back towards the fire." Italy said in a small voice.

"Why?" Prussia demanded, grabbing Italy's collar.

"He said he knew how to stop it, or it would just push the tributes together." Italy told him shakily. "Elizebeta went after him."

"What did he expect to do?" Prussia asked angrily.

"I don't know!" Italy cried.

"It's not doing any good scaring him like that-" America tried.

"Where did you see them last?" Prussia shook the terrified Italian by his collar. "Well?"

"I don't know!" Italy repeated.

"Be useful for once in your life! Where did they go?"

"Towards the fire!" Italy clawed weakly at Prussia's hand, feet thrashing. "That's all I know, I swear!"

"Gilbert!" America said sharply, pulling Prussia's hand open easily. Italy threw himself behind America and clung to him.

Prussia turned on him instead. "Don't go telling me what to do!"

"Then don't go bullying people!" America snapped back.

Prussia made a noise of mingled frustration and disgust and turned to march farther towards the growing blaze.

"We're not going after him, are we?" Italy murmured from somewhere under his arm.

"Unfortunately."

Italy whimpered.

* * *

Hungary skidded to a stop, narrowly avoiding the collapsing tree so closely the tips of her hair singed.

"Ludwig this is stupid!" she shouted, clambering over the trunk, avoiding the burning patches of dead wood.

Germany paused a few yards ahead, pushing aside burning leaves with his hands to see the ground.

"Running is stupid." he muttered hoarsely, jerking his hand back sharply. A red welt blossomed on the back of his hand.

"What do you expect to do?" Hungary demanded angrily, looking over his shoulder.

"The fire started somewhere."

"So?"

"So there's something around here that's keeping it going."

"Even if you find it, you think you can disarm it?" Hungary asked in disbelief.

"Yes."

"And if you kill yourself in the process?"

Germany straightened up again. "No harm done."

Hungary opened her mouth to argue.

"Elizebeta!"

"Gilbert?" She turned to see him appear through the smoke like a ghost, hair and skin unmarred by the smoke and ash. Only Prussia could stay the color of snow in the middle of a burning forest.

"At least you haven't killed yourself yet." Hungary sighed.

"Yah yah, I'm completely useless Ludwig what the hell are you doing?" Prussia waved Hungary's comment off and turned to his brother.

"Something stupid." Hungary told him.

"Well what else is new?" Prussia said in exasperation.

"Have you seen Italy?" Hungary asked suddenly, looking around.

"Huh? Oh he's over there hiding behind Alfred." Prussia said dismissively. "Ludwig stop walking away so I can beat you and drag you out of here."

"Alfred…?" Hungary asked.

"Here." America said, walking out of the smoke after Prussia. Italy's face appeared under America's arm.

"Why…?"

"Force of habit." America shrugged.

* * *

America looked down as Italy jerked back behind him again.

"I told you to go back towards the Cornucopia." Germany growled.

"I'm sorry!" Italy squeaked.

"Wait… that means you knew what he was doing! You said you didn't!" Prussia said angrily.

"I'm sorry! He told me not to say anything!" Italy cried, hiding under America's jacket.

"Don't yell at him!" Germany turned on his brother.

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"Just get out of here!"

"You first!"

"Why don't we all get out of here?" Hungary tried.

"Why are you so stubborn?" Germany demanded.

"Why are you always plotting new ways to kill yourself?" Prussia retaliated.

"Okay." Hungary sighed, stepping between them. "Ludwig if you're going to be stupid _go do it_ and get it over with. Gilbert stop being an ass and make sure he doesn't get himself killed along the way."

"Why should we listen to you?" Prussia asked resentfully.

"Because I _said so_." Hungary said threateningly. "Now GO."

"Well that's one way to get things done." America commented as Germany continued whatever he was doing and Prussia followed him.

"Around Gilbert you learn effective management skills." Hungary said dryly.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Prussia asked, kicking burning leaves out of his way.

Germany flinched back from the roots of the tree he was examining. "Burning myself."

"Besides that."

"Trying to…" Germany trailed off.

"What?" Prussia looked over his shoulder.

"Move!" Germany jumped back, shoving Prussia back. A burst of flame erupted from the tree roots Germany had just been looking at.

"What the hell was that?" Prussia demanded, brushing burning leaves out of his hair.

"That." Germany panted, getting back to his feet. "Was what I was looking for."

"Okay, so besides almost killing us, what does it do?" Prussia asked, looking at it more carefully.

"It's keeping the fire going. There's probably dozens out here, all leading back to the Cornucopia." Germany said, digging at the scorched dirt.

"Okay. So…"

"If we can stop it we can stop the Gamemakers from keeping the fire going." Germany said breathlessly.

"Right, right… how are you going to stop it?" Prussia asked, hovering over Germany's shoulder.

"I have no idea."

"Awesome."

* * *

…**Well it was short but it was an update. So..uh…. I WILL BE HERE NEXT WEEK. If I'm not please beat me over the head with a shovel.**

**Anyway, thanks again for 100 reviews guys. Pretty much made my week.**

**NOT THAT YOU SHOULD STOP REVIEWING NOW.**

***EDIT* By the way, I recently checked the stats for this story. Over six hundred people have read it. Mind blown, guys. Seriously. That's more people than there are at my school.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Okay first things first.**

**RALLY TO RESTORE SANITY. FTW.**

**Hopefully some of you will get it. We're not all crazy Alfred ;3.**

**Sooo…. GUESS WHO GOT HER LAPTOP BAAAACK!**

**I seriously couldn't have managed another day. I was just thinking 'I'm going to kill my Vista if I have to keep using it' and I walked into my kitchen and there was this brown box beautifully laptop-shaped.**

**And… there's something else… something lurking over me like an angry Russia [which we can all agree is a terrifying thought, da?]…**

**So I may or may not have mentioned on Facebook that six hundred people read a story I wrote (cuse I was dumbfounded and Facebook is the place for dumbfoundation). And my mom popped up asking to read it. And I was like 'It's fanfiction you wouldn't get it.' and she apparently took that as a challenge BECAUSE SHE SEARCHED ME ON FANFICTION AND FOUND THIS STORY.**

**So obviously she didn't get the story (I warned her it was fanfiction, didn't I?) but she went through and read all my ANs and your reviews and she was like 'Okay I was wrong you don't just sit there and melt your brain. Also you're funny.' and I was like 'THANK YOU BUT I DIDN'T KNOW YOU COULD FIND MY INTERNETS LIKE THAT!' and she said something like 'I just looked up that fanfiction thing you were talking about and then searched RinaCath'**

**Damn me and my tendency to use one username for everything. Now I have to go change my password because she knows that too.**

**So now I'm paranoid she's going to continue to stalk my fanfiction and maybe even *dramatic music* READ IT. My mom read my fanfiction. You could make a blues song of that. Seriously it'd be weird if suddenly my mom understood all the lewd comments I make.**

**So HI MOM and everyone else who puts up with my ridiculously long ANs (seriously why do you guys do that?).**

**[Uh… also I totally only curse this much on the internets. And it's not me cursing. It's Prussia mostly. Ground him.]**

* * *

"S..sir? Please, we're doing our best but your requests are so…odd. The cameras are being blocked by the smoke, they're not leaving the area like we assumed… But their vitals are all normal. We can't flush them out without risking their injury-"

"That would be…unacceptable."

"O-of course! We are trying our best-"

"You have already lost one of them."

"That was out of our control! The tributes are going to go after each other, it's not something we can control, even the tributes were taken by surprise-"

"You are sloppy and incompetent."

"…Sir?"

"I will be taking your job for now. Tell the Gamemakers they are no longer necessary."

"But sir! You can't possibly run the entire Games yourself! It takes a dozen well-trained Gamemakers to keep it running under perfect conditions-"

"Do not." Panem stood, towering threateningly over the smaller man. "Tell me what I can and can not do."

The man was rendered speechless.

"Go. Tell the others. Then leave. I have no more use for you."

Released, the man turned and scrambled out of the room.

Panem glared at the door behind him for a moment. The wood was fine-grained and dark. The entire office was filled with luxury items that would make any of the District peasants weep. He swept his hand across his desk angrily, littering the floor with papers and golden trinkets.

Damn them! A century he'd looked and here they were, from no where! Just appeared!

He'd underestimated them. He'd taken them for dead. He would never make that mistake again.

Sufficiently calmed by the mess he'd made of his office floor, he turned to the wall behind him. Screens filled it from corner to corner, showing him every inch, every moment of the Hunger Games.

The arena had been designed specifically for the Quarter Quell. The most advanced of their technology went into these Games, the most secretive, most deadly. This Games was intended to be the most amazing yet.

His perfect society could only exist so long as these fourteen-now thirteen-men and women kept their secret. One mention, one hint, and his perfect world would implode on itself.

He knew rebellion was bubbling up in the Districts. He knew he could never completely crush it, could only keep the people so terrified they wouldn't take action. He controlled them with heavy force. Fear was his only weapon, and he used it well.

But his fellow countries…. No, they were not deserving of sharing the title with him. Former countries. Nothing more than immortal scum now.

But these countries…knew fear. They knew pain. And they knew how to rebel. They were exactly what Panem had feared for so long; a source of information. A link to the past. A force to unite people across Districts. If that kind of raw power were unleashed, Panem did not know if he could stop it.

Many of the screens before him were clouded over with smoke. The Gamemakers had not anticipated this problem, had not known that the countries might stay where they were not visible.

A voice buzzed from the mess on the floor. He bent down and rescued the intercom.

"Sir, the boy you requested is here."

Panem smiled suddenly. "Send him in."

"At once."

The door opened a moment later.

"Let go of me already! I'm serious!"

"Yah, whatever kid." the Peacekeeper holding him snickered. "Here you are."

Bespectacled blue eyes met Panem's. "You! Let them out of there, you can't do this!"

Panem laughed at his attempt to turn his soft voice angry. "Calm yourself, Mathew, you'll be safe so long as I'm in a good mood."

"It's not me I'm worried about!" Canada struggled against the Peacekeeper's hold.

Panem settled back in his chair. "You can go." he said to the Peacekeeper.

The man's eyebrows shot up. "But sir, he's feistier than he looks-"

"He wouldn't dare try anything with his brother's life on the line." Panem caught Canada's eyes again. "Would he?"

Canada tried to keep Panem's gaze but eventually dropped it to stare at his own feet. "No."

"Whatever." the Peacekeeper shrugged and turned to go. "Oh, here."

He unclipped the keys from his belt and handed them to Panem. "For the kid's 'cuffs."

The Peacekeeper shut the door behind him.

Canada risked looking up again. Panem watched him silently, taking in all the characteristics he remembered. Shy, quiet, almost invisible. A clone of his brother in every way but personality.

He'd always liked Canada better.

"Are you enjoying the Games?"

"No." Canada said simply, keeping his eyes planted on the ground.

"That's a shame. These are exceptionally interesting circumstances."

Canada said nothing.

"I never really enjoy the Games until they're done with, personally. So much stress. But I can't help but re-watch them once they're over. Such excitement!" Panem leaned back and set his feet up on his desk. "Especially this time, so many censored words. We couldn't catch it at first but once we knew what to look for…"

Canada flinched. He would have heard his own name, sounding out throughout the country, on live television. It must have been quite terrifying for him.

"Tell me, Canada, how long have you and your brother been hiding in District 12?"

Canada said nothing.

Panem sighed and pulled his feet from his desk, standing up slowly. Canada was very determinedly looking at the carpet.

"Do you know where your brother is right now?"

Canada glanced up again. His eyes focused behind Panem.

Panem turned to see the screens lined behind him.

"Always the hero, isn't he?"

"Always."

Panem smiled, still facing the screens. "You know what I can do from this room, Canada?"

Silence.  
"I can kill him. It wouldn't take a second. A moment's thought, if that."

Panem heard Canada's breath catch, but the weaker nation seemed determined to keep his silence.

He pulled something from his pocket. He could feel Canada's eyes focus on it from across the room.

"This can control everything in the arena." Panem turned to see Canada's eyes fixed on the remote in his hand. "Everything. And this?"

His thumb hovered over a switch at the top of the remote.

"All I have to do is press it. And the chip in your brother's arm stops his heart."

"Why did you bring me here?" Canada asked suddenly, still fixed on the remote.

Panem's smile widened. He played with the switch.

"Can't you tell Canada? You're insurance."

"What?"

"America is a very disobedient country. He's already informed one of my staff of his true identity. It's only a matter of time before he decides to share that information with the world."

"So you'll censor it, like you censor our names."

"You underestimate your brother, Canada." Panem taunted. "Or else you overestimate me. If America wants his message to be heard he'll make sure it is."

"So what am I supposed to do about it?"

"Like I said, Canada. You are my insurance. If - or rather, when - America chooses to reveal what he is, I will need someone to sooth the masses. Someone to assure them that the others are barbaric and weak and that I am still the one they should align themselves with."

"Why would they listen to me? No one ever has."

"You underestimate yourself Canada! The world will be fascinated to hear from a fallen country, especially if he tells them there is nothing to fear from me." Panem turned back to his screens.

"And why would I do that?" Canada demanded.

"Because." Panem held the remote up again. "If you don't, your brother will be… disposed of. I wonder how long it will take, the countries have thus-far proven very resilient. It might take hours." Panem turned back to Canada. "Maybe days. And of course you will watch. The entire world will watch. Poor America, won't even know that his own brother let it happen! You two used to be so close-"

"Stop!" Canada cried suddenly. "Just…stop."

"Do we have a deal then?"

"What's to say America won't die in the Arena anyway? Maybe he'll be killed by another tribute or something, I don't know."

"I can guarantee he won't, Canada."

Canada looked up.

"I can guarantee that your brother will win the Hunger Games. You want to see him again, don't you?" Panem's smile grew as he saw the attention he held. "All you have to do is promise me you'll be there to calm the masses. You'll be so popular, Canada! The world won't be able to get enough of you!"

Canada's eyes narrowed. "What about the others?"

"Well I can't really promise anything there, can I? It is the Hunger Games. Only one can survive…" Panem trailed off. "You can't save them all. But you can save him." He raised his thumb over the switch again. "Or, you can doom him. Your choice, really."

Panem waited patiently as Canada's eyes fixed on the switch.

"Deal."

* * *

**Oh Canada…**

**I felt like we needed a chapter from outside the Arena. And a chapter about Panem. KILLING TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE FTW. Just not Gilbirds. That wouldn't be ftw at all.**

**There'll be a few more chapters with Panem. Because I can.**

**YES I KNOW IT WAS SHORT. But trust me, it's important to the plot. As much as you may doubt it. Anyway, I've got the plot pretty much solidified so there shouldn't be anymore filler chapters. I always flounder with filler chapters before I figure out what I'm doing.**

**BUT NOW I KNOW.**

**(So… how may of you noticed I stopped naming my chapters?)**

**RnR for being on time?**


	17. Muttation

**So I missed school almost all week. Except Wednesday and Friday. Why Wednesday? Because my mom decided I was fine through her own powerful skills of deductive reasoning. And she was wrong. And didn't believe me Thursday when I claimed as such.**

**She apparently thinks I've reverted to my 9 year old self and refuse to go to school for the hell of it. **

**So anyway I've been thinking about doing an all-human variation of APH/Hunger Games. Which is weird because the whole reason I even wrote this was because I wanted it to be countries…**

**I have no idea. It would be a different story, but how many of you would read that?**

**Anyway, hardest chapter in history to write... I don't like the first part but I'm rather fond of the second x3...**

**

* * *

**

"Well?"

"Well what, Gilbert?"

"How's it going?"

"Not so great. There's an annoying voice in my ear."

"Fine." Prussia huffed. "For the record I'm never annoying. My awesomeness is just too much to handle sometimes."

"That must be it." Germany sighed, flinching back from the thick metal tube buried in the roots of one of the few trees not yet in flames.

"So how's it work?"

"If I knew that I wouldn't keep burning myself, would I?" Germany said angrily, nursing his blistered hand momentarily.

"Too bad you don't have gloves or something."

"Yes, Gilbert, I agree that in this situation 'gloves or something' would be nice." Germany said dryly.

"Just trying to help." Prussia told his overly-serious brother, flinching as a burning branch nearly hit him on its path to the ground.

"If you really want to help then hold this." Germany adjusted his grip on the metal tube so Prussia could take it instead.

"It's not going to burn me, is it?"

"It might."

"Because that wouldn't be awesome."

"Are you going to take it or not?"

"Okay!" Prussia tentatively held the hot piece of metal. It left ugly black smears on his fingers. "Gross."

Germany grumbled to himself but said nothing.

A few minutes later Germany knocked Prussia's hand away from the tube as it spurted fire again, falling emptily on the scorched ground. Dry leaves father out caught a few of the sparks and engulfed almost immediately. They would be forced from the spot before long.

"I can't figure it out!" Germany said in frustration. "It doesn't work like any of the technology I've seen before, I don't recognize any of it!"

Prussia looked down at the tube, the glowing red fading back to it's dull gray color. There was no way even he could figure it out. And he could do anything.

"May I, ah… be of assistance?"

Germany turned with a small start. Prussia followed suit once he was sure the pipe wasn't going to burn their faces off any time soon.

"Jap…Kiku?" Germany asked incredulously. "I haven't even seen you since the Games started, where have you been hiding..?"

"Around." Japan said mysteriously. "You said you couldn't understand the technology, may I have a look?"

"Yah, of course, just be careful." Germany held up his burned hands as if in explanation, still seemingly shocked to see his old ally appearing so spontaneously. If spontaneously could ever be used to describe Japan. Which Prussia doubted.

Japan knelt down carefully, looking at the exposed pipe without touching it. The burst of fire exploded suddenly, though he suspected Germany had noticed a tell he hadn't (just because he'd had longer to look for it, of course). He had to give Japan credit, he didn't so much as flinch.

Prussia couldn't really see what he was doing (and he might have gotten bored of watching), but it seemed complicated and careful.

"Ludwig, could you pull on this, please?" Japan asked politely.

Germany nodded wordlessly and got the best grip he could on the tube. With a sharp jerk, it came free of the ground.

"What…?" Germany looked at the pole in his hand, at least two feet long. "What did you do?"

"I disconnected it." Japan said as if it were really that simple. He brushed the displaced dirt back into the hole. "We should move."

"Why?" Prussia asked, not sure if he were willing to trust Japan yet.

"I have a feeling it would end badly to stay here."

"That's not an answer!" Prussia said angrily. Germany grabbed his arm with the hand that wasn't still wrapped around the pipe and pulled. Prussia stumbled after him a moment before the ground exploded.

Fire and dirt sprayed his clothes and face, leaving him scrubbing his eyes in the hope that they would open. He could feel sparks eating their way through his clothes though at the moment he was far more concerned with seeing again.

He scrubbed his eyes clean enough to pry the open. Just in time to see the tree lean ominously in his direction. With a last snap, the roots gave up their hold on the ruined ground.

* * *

There was no end to the problems Prussia caused in his life. He was obnoxious and rude and argued over the stupidest of things, and whatever had happened in the last hundred years, Germany had never forgotten that.

He'd also never forgotten that his brother had saved his life on more than one occasion and when it mattered, Prussia was always on his side.

Which was probably what drove him to do something as stupid and dangerous as pushing Prussia out of the way of a collapsing tree.

Prussia scrambled to a stop, still on his feet, inches away from falling into the fire. Germany was less lucky.

The lower branches of the tree grabbed at his ankle and twisted it, pulling him back and trapping him under the weight of the trunk. There was an ominous cracking sound that he prayed came from the tree.

Prussia turned once he'd caught his balance again.

"What the fuck, West?" he demanded, pulling at the branches that had caught Germany's leg. The flames were starting to climb up the dry bark on the trunk.

"I have no idea." Germany said through gritted teeth.

Prussia set his good shoulder on the tree and shoved, feet scrambling for a hold in the loose dirt. The tree lifted up a moment before collapsing again. Germany bit his tongue to keep from shouting out.

Prussia took a step back, out of breath, rubbing his bad shoulder. "Damn it, West, getting into stupid situations is my job."

"I felt the need to relieve you of your post." Germany grunted, trying to pull himself free. Tongues of flame continued to eat their way closer to where he lay, trapped.

"Perhaps I could help?"

"You've helped enough, this is your fault!" Prussia exploded at Japan, turning on the shorter man.

"Gilbert!"

Prussia half turned to look at his younger brother. He sighed.

"Fine, yah, on the count of three, alright?" he muttered, putting his hands on the tree again. Japan nodded and followed suit.

"One." Germany braced himself. "Two." Prussia shifted his weight to take the brunt of the load with his good arm. "Three!"

Both of them strained against the tree trunk. It creaked angrily as branches crunched under the mixed pressure of flames and the nations. Germany pulled himself backwards, tearing his leg free of the branches.

Prussia and Japan let the tree fall back with matching gasps. Prussia's hands were under his arms in a moment, heaving him to his feet, or at least his one good foot. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "Stupid little brother." but Germany didn't press him.

"Are you alright?" Japan asked in his detached polite tone. His face was smeared black with smoke and soot from the burning bark of the tree.

"I'm fine." Germany muttered, testing his foot. He immediately collapsed.

"Careful!" A blistered hand caught him before he hit the ground. Prussia steadied him again.

Germany glanced at his older brother. His shoulder had torn open again, letting blood spill down his arm and smear on his otherwise-clean face and hair. Germany laughed.

"What?" Prussia demanded, sensing he was the object of ridicule.

"Your blood matches your eyes." Germany chuckled, wondering why he was laughing at all.

Prussia glanced down in surprise. "Feeling alright, West?"

"Fine-" Germany made to answer, but the sound of crunching trees cut him off.

"America look out!" came Hungary's voice.

"Hungary!" Prussia called back, suddenly tense.

"Come on." Germany grabbed Prussia's good shoulder for support and hobbled back towards where they'd left Hungary with America and Italy.

* * *

America swung his fist at the beast bearing down on him. He felt his fist connect with something and his fingers cracked under the pressure.

"What is that?" Hungary cried, rushing forward to wrap her arms protectively around Italy, who was still cowering behind America.

"I don't know!" America shouted back, flexing his hand. The creature had stumbled back from America's punch but was turning to face him again.

"It's a muttation!" Italy whimpered.

It looked like he was right. The thing gave a tremendous roar and came at them again. America threw every drop of strength he could behind a second punch. It connected under the beast's jaw, throwing it back into trees that exploded under it's weight.

"Did you kill it?"

"I don't think so." America panted, shaking out his arm. Sure enough, the muttation let out a string of growls, shaking it self to its feet.

"I think you pissed it off." Prussia said, coming out of the trees.

"The sentiment is shared." America said, cracking his knuckles angrily. "Come on, you big stupid lump, what are you waiting for?" he called.

The muttation aimed itself for America, small, beady eyes trained on him.

"You guys go, I'll take care of this thing." America said quietly.

"What? No, we can't just leave you to fight it-"

"Hey, that's why I came, isn't it?" America threw his trademark grin over his shoulder. "Let me play hero, alright?"

"Here, at least take this." Someone pressed something heavy into his hands. He hefted the pipe once before pulling it back and landing a hit on the charging muttation's snout. It let out a sharp squeal, like a wounded bear, reeling back again.

It snorted angrily, blood dripping from its nostrils, tongue flapping out to clear the area.

America panted, the pipe heavy in his hand, sagging down close to the ground. He was alone now. Just him and Panem's twisted creation.

With a cocky grin and a yell, he wrapped his fingers around the dull, gray pipe and ran forward, listening to the satisfying crack as his blow met skull.

* * *

England paced furiously, kicking out at anything that dared disrupt his path. His fingers played over the sharpest knife he'd been able to find in America's bag. Which the idiot hadn't taken.

With an aggravated grunt, he sent the knife spinning through the air to lodge in the tree Denmark was sitting against.

"Done yet?"

"Shut up!" England threatened furiously. "I can't believe him, I can't... What good does it do to play hero all day? He's going to kill himself, I just know it. He's doing something stupid."

"Well it is Alfred," Denmark offered.

"Shut up!" England roared, pulling free a second knife and cocking it back angrily, daring Denmark to continue speaking.

England let out a frustrated groan and continued pacing, grinding his teeth. _Stupid stupid stupid America! I'm going to kill you, I'm going to stab this knife through your ribcage and cut out your heart-_

England's violent rampage was cut short by the sudden appearance of people from the burning forest.

"Well?" he demanded immediately, counting heads. America wasn't among them. "Where is he?"

"Doing something stupid." Prussia sighed, letting Germany slip to the ground and working the ache out of his shoulder.

"Told you." Denmark called.

"What? Where is he?" England demanded, all but shaking Prussia by his bloodied collar.

"There was something out there." Hungary said, trying to sooth Italy, who refused to let go of her shirt. "Something huge."

"Like a bear?" Denmark called hopefully.

"Shut up Axel!" England shouted furiously. "What was it?" he turned his attention back to Hungary.

"Kind of like a bear. But bigger-"

"Even better!"

England turned and threw the knife in his hand. It pinned Denmark's hood to the tree, cutting him in the process.

"I told you to shut up!" England all but screamed at him.

"He's still out there, fighting whatever it is..." Hungary said, finally succeeding in prying Italy's fingers out of her shirt. "It just-Arthur wait!"

But England had heard enough. He pried his knives from the tree and marched off into the forest, intent on finding his ex-colony if it killed him.

"Good riddance!" Denmark called after him.

A few minutes later England was standing in the middle of the forest, completely surrounded by trees and fire, wondering how he expected to find America.

"Arrrrgggg!" he screamed, frustrated beyond belief. He launched a kick at a near-by rock.

"...take that you stupid-!"

"Wow you're slow!"

England's foot missed the rock. He lost his balance and collapsed on his back, but he immediately scrambled to his feet again.

"America?" he called hopefully. The sound of crunching trees lead him forward.

"Ha ha! Fooled you!"

England burst through the trees to see America standing victoriously, glasses askew, panting heavily. He was grinning from ear to ear, fingers flexing around a length of bloody pipe.

"Alfred!" England called in relief. He was alive, he wasn't hurt...

"Arthur?" America froze, the grin sliding off his face. His eyes darted to something just beyond England's shoulder. "Arthur run!"

England made to turn but something caught him around the middle long before he'd managed to complete the motion. America slammed into him, knocking him back a good six or seven feet. He rolled to his feet just in time to see the claws of _that thing_ - the claws intended for him - tear down America's face and throw him back into the flames.

"America!" England called, feeling tears he'd held back for days roll down his cheeks. America, _his_ America, his little brother, his.. his...

With a wordless yell, he turned on the beast, getting its attention. It turned its bleeding, misshapen head towards him, blood bubbling around its nostrils.

He ran at it, knife in hand, unsure what he intended to do. The blade skidded off its thick, matted fur, leaving him to leap away before the claws still wet with America's blood crushed him into the ground.

His chest burned, the wound he'd all but dismissed by now torn open. The thing lumbered over him, hot, sticky breath blowing his hair into his eyes. Blood spattered his face.

_It can't smell anymore..._ England realized, watching it glare down at him with first one eye, then the other, both beady and pure black.

With an unexpected cackle, England rolled off his back and pushed himself to his feet, a knife in each hand, watching the beast turn to him, confused by his speed. England pushed off of the ground and flung himself at the muttation, wringing an arm around its neck and pressing his knife into one of its eyes.

It popped like a grape, dark blood flooding down over his hand. The monster threw its head back, roaring angrily, trying to shake him off.

_Just waves to ride out_. England gritted his teeth, knowing if he slid off now, he'd be snapped up instantly in the powerful jaws working just inches below him. He clung to the greasy, knotted fur for his life, sure he would fall any minute. The one good eye reeled in its socket, its owner driven mad with pain.

The muttation threw itself back on its hind legs, catching England by surprise. He was thrown free of the thing's head, hitting slamming into one of the trees not yet destroyed or on fire.

Stunned, he watched the beast slowly turn to him, one eye nothing but a mass of black blood, the other locked on him, revenge bright it its shining center.

England panted roughly, feeling blood seep through his shirt. The muttation crept slowly forward, knowing its prey was cornered.

His muscles refused to respond. He struggled against the fog stealing over his mind, willing his limbs to move, watching death inch closer. His fingers curled around the hilt of his knife weakly.

_Damn it Kirkland, you will get up_. He growled to himself. Hot air blew his hair back from his eyes. _You. Will. Get. Up._

The muttation threw itself up on its hind legs, intending to crush him beneath its overwhelming mass.

England jolted forward in one motion and plunged the knife into the beast's throat to the hilt. His protesting muscles refused to do more than that, leaving him to be crushed beneath the muttation's chest as it clawed the air uselessly, its own heart pumping the blood from its body.

With a final roar of defiance, the beast died, falling to the ground and taking England with it.

England felt consciousness threaten to leave him. He couldn't breathe, the weight of the muttation was pressing on his ribcage. Soon, his ribs would snap and puncture his lungs, killing him.

_Sorry America..._ he thought cloudily.

Fear jolted him back into his body. America was still laying somewhere, hurt. America needed his big brother.

England found his hand was still on the handle of his knife and pulled, dragging himself into the air again. He abandoned the knife and clawed at the ground, pulling himself free. His body ached and protested, crying for mercy, but he refused it.

"America!" he called, dragging himself upright. "America, damn it, answer me..."

He stumbled around the fallen muttation. "America!"

There. He scrambled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet, wrapping his hands around the thick shoulders and pulling, dragging him free of the flames eating away at his jacket.

England sagged to his knees, beating out the fire. Four red lines oozed blood onto England's sleeve as it brushed across America's face, reaching up past his hairline and down his neck to his collar bone. The last sparks died from his jacket, leaving the skin across his shoulder a painful patched red and black, blisters still forming where the fire hadn't completely destroyed his skin.

"America..." England whimpered, running his fingers down his little brother's face, tracing the burning red lines. His chest was motionless, devoid of breath. "America you lost Texas. I've told you a thousand times to be careful with it..."

England tore his eyes from America's face to look around, trying to find the glint of his fallen brother's glasses.

He stood, feeling his joints creak angrily. "You need Texas, America... I'll find it for you..."

He stumbled back to the muttation, combing the ground for the slim frames. The fire glinted off of something in the dirt.

"Here it is!" he called, snatching them from the ground and hurrying back to America. He knelt next to him, brushing the hair from his eyes. "I found them." he said gently.

He unfolded the frames and slid them on, careful of the bleeding gashes marring America's face. England refused to accept the obvious, that America's breath had stopped, that he didn't need Texas anymore.

"I told you not to go playing hero, you idiot!" England sobbed, combing America's bloody hair with his fingers. "I told you so many times! You never listen to me!"

He pressed his lips to America's broken ones. His mouth was still warm, still flooded with the feel of life that had been there moments ago. America's bleeding lips tainted the kiss with the taste of death, salty and bitter.

Suddenly air was forced down his throat. A hand tangled in England's hair, holding him where he was, crouched over his ex-colony.

England's eyes snapped open.

* * *

**LIKE I WOULD KILL AMERICA. Honestly though, did you think he was dead? Because if it was me I'd be like 'Nuh uh. He's not dead. There wasn't a canon fire. He's totally alive.'**

**I couldn't help it. You were all convinced that America is going to win. I had to remind you he's such an idiot.**

**I'm such a sucker for US/UK x3.**


	18. Trust Me

**There were some interesting reactions to the end of last chapter... Some people were all 'YAY US/UK' and some were all 'aww US/UK? Can't you like..not?' and some were like 'No. US/Can. Make it so.' to which I was like 'No. Go read something else.'**

**Sorry guys, I just can't fall into the US/Can thing. I dunno..**

**Anyways. In other news, I FINALLY got my hands on MockingJay. *cries for joy***

**But I haven't started it yet. Homework. *cries for sadness***

**Also Brother!Prussia is the cutest thing ever. End of discussion.

* * *

**

Bright blue eyes met his, familiar and pained and _alive_. They tore apart, gasping.

"You... You're..." England panted, mind reeling.

America made to sit up and instantly fell back, shoulder pinning him to the ground. America had an impossibly high pain tolerance, England knew from experience, but even he had to be stoic to keep from crying out.

"Miss me?" America said, trying to catch his breath, eyes dancing with laughter.

"Damn it America!" England snapped suddenly. "How could you be so stupid?"

"Better me than you." America said casually, eyes still glittering.

Something crackled behind England. He paused, looking over his shoulder anxiously.

"Don't move." he said finally, reluctant to leave America alone but more uncomfortable with an uninvestigated sound.

"I'll try not to." America said, grinning despite his torn lips.

England scrambled to his feet and crept toward the sound of movement, tense. Something shifted just outside his field of vision and he jumped.

"Ivan!" he said, feeling for his knife.

"Looking for this?" Russia asked, running a finger down the edge.

England froze, fingers still on his belt.

"Relax, comrade." Russia took a step closer, holding the knife out by the blade, handle towards England.

England didn't move, though the knife was within his reach.

"It is yours, is it not?" Russia said, looking down at the shorter nation curiously. He made to take another step.

"Don't." England warned, unsure how he intended to defend himself against the towering Russian. "Just...don't."

Russia replaced his foot and turned the knife around so he was holding it properly, watching the drying blood glint off its silvery surface. "No one trusts me, da?"

"I'm not an idiot." England said, eyes locked on the knife. "I saw what you did to Gilbert, what you probably want to do to me."

Russia frowned. "Ah... Gilbert... was in my way."

"Am I in your way?"

Russia's hand tightened on the knife. "I do not wish to harm you, comrade, but you are making it very difficult."

"Where's your demented sister then? Probably waiting for your signal-"

Russia moved very fast for his size. He grabbed England's collar, lifting him off the ground and slammed him into a tree, their faces hardly an inch apart, Russia's rancid breath mingling with England's.

"Natalia was killed in the Games, and if you do not wish to follow her you will listen to what I have to say."

"Are you trying to force me to trust you?" England gasped, pulling at Russia's hands to no effect. Russia blinked in surprise and dropped the smaller nation. England landed awkwardly and worked to regain his balance.

"Of course not. But do not dismiss me as an enemy when you have so few friends, da?" Russia said as if nothing had happened. "Now, take your knife, if it will make you less jumpy."

England took the handle offered to him, half expecting Russia to turn the knife around any second and stab him through the heart. But Russia only continued to smile, letting go of the blade once England had taken hold of the other end.

"Better?" Russia asked.

England didn't respond, looking down at the bloody knife.

"Comrade, these Games do not suit either of us." Russia said softly.

"Speak for yourself." England said, turning away from Russia. England's back itched to be facing Russia, but for now, there was no helping that.

"You like seeing him hurt by something you can't control?" Russia's hand landed on his shoulder. "You like knowing that whatever you do, both of you can't escape?"

England knocked the hand off his shoulder and turned back to face Russia furiously. "What do you want?" he demanded.

"I want you to realize you are playing a fatal game with Panem." Russia said, still smiling.

"Aren't we all?" England asked dryly.

"Panem expects he can control us, da? He predicts our moves. What if we did something he did not predict?" Russia said quietly, leaning in.

England flinched at Russia's direct statement.

"Then they'd kill us." England said carefully, gesturing to the burning forest around them. "There's nothing we can do."

"There is nothing we can do..." Russia repeated slowly, leaning back again. "You cannot defeat the strongest army in the world with group of rebels."

England glared silently.

"Did I hit a nerve yet?"

"I won't ask him that."

"But you want it to happen." Russia pressed.

"I don't. The risks are too high."

"The risks were high before."

"They weren't. I wouldn't hurt him."

"Not even then?"

"Not ever."

"You're hurting him now. You're making him play a game he can't win."

"Because you intend to?" England asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Because he would never win at the expense of everyone else." Russia said. "And we both know that."

Russia bent down and picked something off the ground. "You think that he hasn't thought about it, but he has." It was the pipe America had dropped. Russia smacked it against his open palm. "You have not experienced that sort of radical change. You never stop thinking about it," he smacked his hand again. "not really."

England watched the metal pipe bounce against Russia's hand.

"The forest is burning, England. How much time do you have to decide?"

England paused and looked back towards America. Russia extended his hand, palm up, innocently.

"Trust me."

* * *

**So... Can Russia be trusted?**


	19. Trust is Earned, Love is Given

**OH MY GOSH I FINISHED THIS CHAPTER.**

**This chapter got out of hand. It grew a life of it's own, I swear. I'm so sorry guys, I need to stop falling off the face of the Earth... (but I'm better than a lot of writers, right? Right?)**

**This was so, so hard to write. I couldn't figure out what to do and once I did I just wanted to get these scenes right, because they're important. And, even though they took far too long, I'm rather fond of them. In fact, I think this is my favorite chapter 3**

**I hope you know I wrote the first scene in the dark to "get into the mood of the story" and almost broke my laptop when I saw something move at the end of my bed.**

**It was my foot. But still. I could have died.**

**...I smell character death... It smells... Deliciously fiendish and bloody. Oh, who will it be, who will it be...**

**If there's some grammatical mistakes or weird jumpy cut-offs, I'm so sorry, please tell me. This thing was ridiculous to proofread.**

**(also I finally got a good title for a chapter, wiiiin.)**

* * *

It was just a hand. Just five fingers, empty and innocent.

A hand with blood crusted under the fingernails.

England didn't want to trust it. He wanted to run from it, to see it burn in this forest. It was the hand, and it's owner, that he couldn't trust more than anything. The lies and the happy smile that hid it all.

But that was a long time ago, before they'd found another common enemy. Did it change anything? Would Russia ever pause to kill him if that was what suited him?

For the first time, England really looked at Russia, looking for the lie, for the deceit. His cheeks were hallowed in a way he hadn't expected, his eyes dark and sunken with sleeplessness. There was a scar he didn't remember stretching down Russia's jaw.

Through it all, Russia's smile was serene, as if it didn't matter what he chose either way. Probably because if he chose not to trust him he'd end up with a dent in his skull.

It was more symbolic that anything, but England grasped Russia's offered hand.

"Fine."

There was a short, sharp shake that jerked his entire arm and both of them pulled away as if suddenly burned.

"You should know this is only because I have to." England warned, massaging the bones of his fingers back into place.

"Of course." Russia said in his usual cheery voice. He leaned down and hefted America over his shoulder, now thankfully unconscious.

"Careful!" England gasped.

"He is durable, yes?" Russia said carelessly, walking out of the forest.

"Yes, but be careful, he's hurt..." England said, following Russia.

* * *

"No."

Russia dropped America to the ground, only slightly careful to keep from breaking anything. England scoffed angrily and pushed past him, dragging out a first aid kit from the bag he'd dropped earlier.

"Good to see you, Gilbert. How is the arm?" Russia said politely.

"Absolutely not. Not even kind of." Prussia said angrily, albeit from a safe distance. "You get out of here you stupid friggin Ru-... Idiot."

"You've very coherent Gilbert." Hungary sighed. "But he is right, maybe you'd be better off somewhere else."

"I am England's ally now, yes?" Russia asked, looking at England. England was already regretting anything he'd agreed to.

"Sort of." he muttered, pulling the bandages tight on America's shoulder.

Prussia made an indecipherable noise of anger that may or may not have been partially German and stormed off, muttering.

"Is he completely sane?" England asked, sitting back on his heels.

"I've been asking myself the same thing for years." Hungary said, following Prussia.

"WHAT IS THIS, A MEETING HALL? WAS I NOT INFORMED?" came Prussia's furious voice.

It was roughly around this time that Italy vanished too.

"Lovino Lovino Lovino Lovino!" he cried, pelting across the clearing and tackling his brother. They both collapsed with mingled cries of joy and curses.

"He's very trusting." Russia commented.

"Don't remind me." Germany muttered, limping after them, leaving England alone with Russia and the unconscious America, suitably patched up.

"Quite the eventful day." Russia commented, looking at the sky. "The announcements will be soon, yes?"

"Natalia will be among them, won't she?" England asked.

"She will." Russia said, face blank of emotion. "I fear Vash will be too."

"More of your killing spree?"

"Natalia's, actually. It was quite the unfortunate collision. I feel bad for the girl I left behind."

There was a long silence, punctuated by conversation across the clearing.

"It was the girl that made me decide what to do." Russia said quietly, still looking up. "Natalia was the one who wanted revenge at any cost. I see now that her methods could only ever cause more pain."

England wasn't sure what to say in response. It had never occurred to him to think of Russia as anything more than heartless.

* * *

America mumbled something and coughed. England looked up from his fingernails, pausing from scraping them clean.

America sat up slowly, nursing his various injuries.

"Feeling better?"

"Uh... Sorta." he said, frowning slightly. Or maybe that was the scratches running down his face pulling at the corner of his mouth. "And a little dizzy."

"That'll be the morphling. Messes with your head." England said casually, going back to his fingernails.

"Morphling?"

"Painkiller. There was some in a few of the first aid kits. You were moaning in your sleep."

"Oh."

There was a pause.

"Hey Arthur about that k-"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But-"

"No."

America sighed. "Okay... So where are we, exactly?"

England looked at him, then at the Cornucopia he was leaning against.

"Did the morphling blind you?"

"No!" America said indignantly. "I just... So what'd I miss?"

"Gilbert, Ludwig, Elizabeta, and Feliciano are over there, next to Kiku." England said, motioning in the direction of the largest tent in the area and a smaller one in its shadow. "Antonio and Lovino are over there." he added, pointing the knife at the smaller tent a few feet away. "Axel is on the other side of the Cornucopia. And we're in the tent just behind you."

America blinked and looked around. "Why is everyone at the Cornucopia?"

"Like I told you, they were looking for water. There's not much. And we aren't sharing well." England switched hands. "But it looks like it's going to rain soon anyway."

"What about everyone else?"

"Well, Ivan is sleeping in the Cornucopia." England said, looking back at the golden horn. "But-"

"Wait, Ivan?"

"It's a very long story." England said. "Which is partially why he is sleeping in the Cornucopia. Otherwise, there were a few tributes left, but not many. Not as many as here, at least."

"Are-"

"Vash and Natalia are dead." England interrupted.

* * *

England yawned, leaning against the Cornucopia. America had woken up earlier, thankfully, and was alright. For now.

They'd worked out a schedule that involved keeping watch for Panem's toys or other tributes. Mostly it just seemed like an excuse to make him stand outside in the rain.

It had started just after the announcements and was coming down hard, soaking him through to the bone.

_Only an idiot would attack in this bloody rain_.

He pushed the wet hair out of his eyes and pulled the second jacket America had loaned him tighter.

America... There was a problem that needed a solution. If there was one thing that grated on England's nerves more than anything, it was the idea of a revolution, more than that, admitting that the best man for the job of starting a revolution was America.

But he was, and the people of Panem desperately needed a revolution. Hell, _he_ needed a revolution. One that wouldn't run itself into the ground like Katniss and Peeta.

And yet here, in this arena, Panem could do anything. Could kill them without even thinking about it. Worse, he could torture them, physically and mentally. He could drive them insane and make sure that even if one of them made it out they'd be in no state to harm him.

For the first time since the Reaping he thought back to Sealand, who he'd left behind. He'd be watching right now, wouldn't he? Or would he, what time was it back in District 8?

And Canada, hadn't America said he was alive and well in District 12? That was a comfort, at least, to know that one of his boys would survive.

Who else...? He thought back to the Reapings, to the screen he'd been watching so anxiously. Who else had survived? Was it possible there were more of them, living in secret, across the Districts?

It was possible... China, hadn't he seen him alive too? The rest was too foggy for memory. But they existed, they were alive, and even if Panem knew about them, he wouldn't be thinking about them too hard.

England looked up, at the rain clouds that hid the moon and stars. At sea, the stars had been the only thing to guide him at times. He knew if he could see them, he wouldn't ever be lost. He knew them by heart, knew how to read them.

Tonight, the stars were gone, and with them went his certainty. But they were there, hidden, but there. The stars were something Panem couldn't change, couldn't destroy.

And that had to be driving him insane.

* * *

Denmark yawned and reached for the plastic bottle by his feet. The cap came free with a twist and he took a swallow.

He wiped his mouth off and capped the bottle again. The rain pelted the roof of his one-man tent, creeping in through the seams and zipper.

"Crap tent..." he muttered to himself.

He pulled the zipper open and ducked outside, grumbling. It was still night, the clouds completely covering the moon and stars. What little light there was reflected off the wet, shimmering surface of the Cornucopia and made it glitter eerily.

The hairs on the back of his neck pricked uneasily. Something felt wrong.

He pulled himself the rest of the way out, ignoring the rain that soaked him through almost instantly.

Denmark pulled the hood of his jacket up and looked around uneasily. It would just be his luck, to go down from a knife in the back in the middle of the night

A faint sound made him turn suddenly. A shudder ran down his spine. Faintly, through the rain and wind, he could hear voices calling from the forest.

He froze. He had three choices; go and look, which would probably wind up killing him; ignore it and go back to bed, which also might kill him; or wake someone up and inform them, which might annoy them to the point of killing him.

Thus torn on his decision, he decided that confrontation might work better than being ambushed in the dark. He snatched the heavy axe from his tent and a flashlight he'd pilfered and crept towards the sounds.

The flashlight reflected off the rain and mostly served to impede his sight but he was reluctant to leave himself in complete darkness.

"..._mark..._"

"Who's there?" Denmark called, fighting to keep the fear out of his voice.

"..._Deeenmaark..._"

The flashlight fell from his hand, hitting the ground with a soft thump. But Denmark wasn't thinking about that.

He knew that voice.

He left the light to its own devices and hurried forward, listening hard.

"_Denmark!_"

"Norway!" he called back, turning circles, trying find the source of the voice.

There were more, more voices from the dark between the trees. Sweden, Finland, Norway, all of them. He suddenly wished he hadn't dropped his flashlight.

The voices stopped, and something much worse started.

Screaming. They were screaming, in pain, in horror. From all sides, from everywhere.

He pressed his hands to his ears, trying to block it out. Cries for help forced their way between his fingers.

He ran, not noticing the direction, not caring that he'd dropped his axe too now. The trees came at him from nowhere and he scrabbled at them, trying to push past them.

Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating everything, the rain, the trees.

Everything.

Denmark's scream was lost in the roll of thunder.

* * *

A sound in the distance woke America. He listened anxiously, but it was gone now, replaced by the steady drum of rain.

He could have sworn... But it was quiet now. He undid the zipper on the tent and slipped outside.

England was leaning on the Cornucopia, looking up into the rain. America hiked his hood up and made his way toward him.

England looked up as he approached.

"Did you hear something just now?" America asked, shaking out the water in his hair. England scowled as it pelted him.

"Just the thunder." he jerked his thumb towards the sky.

America looked up as lighting bolted across the sky, leaving a burning trail on his eyes afterward. The thunder sounded almost immediately.

He shrugged. "Musta been it."

"Feeling better?" England asked.

"Yup." America said truthfully, stretching out his arms. "One rouge muttation can't kill me."

England rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, watching America demonstrate his apparent dexterity. Something caught America's eye from the other side of the Cornucopia.

"What's that?" he asked, leaning around to see.

"What?" England asked, looking in the same direction.

A faint light shone from between the trees.

* * *

"Hey, guys, there's more footprints this way!" America called. He pointed the flashlight down at the indentations in the mud. "They go this way."

Another flashlight pointed a few feet away. "So do these."

They bent to look. Three deep wells cut through the mud. America's cheek ached.

"Are those the same things we saw earlier?" Prussia asked uneasily.

"Probably." England said, looking farther down the trail.

"Should we keep going?" Italy asked, pressing farther into Germany's jacket.

The canon fire made them all jump.

There was a moment of silence as they watched each other with wide eyes. America took off running after the footprints.

"Alfred!" England shouted after him. He ignored him.

He skidded to a stop much sooner than he'd anticipated. Blood was spattered on the trees just ahead, black and red mixed together in a grizzly marker. America kept going, more slowly now.

He stopped suddenly. Bile rose in his throat.

"Alfred did you-oh." England cut himself off abruptly as he looked on the scene.

"He didn't go down without a fight." America said, nodding to the hulking body of the muttation, torn open with the marks of an axe.

The others filtered after them.

"Aw, that's sick." Prussia said, gagging.

Italy whimpered and hid under Germany's jacket again.

"We should get out of here," England said. "there are obviously more of those things."

America nodded but didn't move. England pulled his arm, forcing him to turn away from the mangled body that had, a few hours ago, been Denmark.

America turned to England, looking down at him, eyes wide.

"They're killing us off, one by one."

"We knew that coming in here." England muttered.

"No, I mean.. he's not waiting for us to turn on each other. He's taking care of it himself."

* * *

Prussia dragged his feet as he walked into camp, straggling at the back of the group, lost in thought. The others filtered back to their tents, the bloody sight they'd just encountered already fading from their memories.

There was too much blood recently.

"How'd he die?" Hungary asked, waiting for him.

Prussia shrugged. "One of those big-ass monsters got him. We dunno why we was out there in the first place though."

Hungary shuddered. "I hoped there wasn't more of those."

"Well that's two dead now." Prussia yawned. "Guy went down a fighter. That thing was torn to pieces."

He didn't add that Denmark had been too.

Hungary rubbed her arms, looking out over the trees.

"You guys coming back inside?" Germany called from their tent.

"Be there in a minute, West." Prussia told him. Hungary raised her eyebrows.

"Can I talk to you?" he muttered.

"Weren't you just?" she joked, but the smile slid off her face almost instantly and she nodded wordlessly.

"Just... This way." he said, grabbing her hand. He dragged her off to the far side of the Cornucopia, where no one would see them.

"What?" she asked as he let go of her hand.

"I..." Something about seeing Denmark torn apart had made everything fall into place for him. Any of them could die any second. This was more than war, it was a minefield. He could die now or in five minutes or in five days.

And he wasn't leaving anything unsaid.

"Why did you volunteer?" he asked, stalling.

She looked surprised.

"I don't know, I guess... I guess I just didn't want to be left behind." she murmured, looking down, arms wrapped around herself. "Just... You kept me sane, all that time. I didn't want to loose that."

He played with the ends of her damp hair, rolling them between his fingers.

"I probably would have done the same." he said after a minute. "I was thinking how much I hoped it wouldn't be you, I didn't even have time to think-"

"What did you want to say, Gilbert?"

He looked down at her, her glowing green eyes, the strands of hair that stuck to her forehead, the crease between her eyebrows that he knew meant she was thinking. Just like he knew everything about her, how her voice changed when she was upset and didn't want to show it, how she bit her lip when she was worried, how to make her laugh when she was on the verge of tears.

In answer, he kissed her, sliding his hand behind her head, keeping her there for a moment. Because, even if she rejected him, even if she broke his heart again, after so many years, he'd have this one instant. This one kiss.

She broke it and took a step back, her back now pressed to the Cornucopia. He felt the old seams pull open down his heart.

"I know you miss him. I know you'd choose him over me if he weren't... but he's gone now." he choked. "I don't care if I'm your second choice, I'm probably your last choice..." he pressed his hands to her face, forcing her to look at him. "I wanted you to know, I... love you. I always have."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was the star on every television in Panem. For once, being the center of attention wasn't all that interesting.

She bit her lip, watching him with wide eyes. His heart pulled apart, thumping haplessly in his throat. It was his turn to take a step back, to look away. He turned to leave.

"I know you don't... that I'm just the aggravating kid from a long time ago who won't leave you alone. I just wanted you to know before... Before something happens. Before I die, I don't know." he murmured, praying that the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes were hidden by the rain.

"You were never my last choice."

She pulled him around by the shoulder and pressed her lips angrily to his, forcing her tongue past his surprised mouth.

It only took him a second to kiss back, both of them clinging to each other as if afraid some force was pulling them apart. Finally, they were forced to come up for air.

"You idiot exhibitionist." she whispered into his neck. "You had to say it on live television?"

"You know me." he chuckled. "Always have to be the center of attention."

"How long?" she asked, too quietly for the cameras.

"Always." he muttered into her hair. "Before he was even in the picture. I just never got the courage to say it. I don't think I wanted to admit it to myself that I might need someone else."

"Even when I thought I was a boy?" she giggled.

"Even then." he laughed back. His neck was wet with more than the rain. Tears slid down her face.

"I miss him." she said. "I really do, but even if he were here... I can't say I'd choose him over you. Even before.. I think... I always loved you too." she buried her face in his neck again. "Maybe I just didn't want to admit I liked the aggravating kid who wouldn't leave me alone. Maybe I was kind of glad you never did."

He stroked her wet hair for a while, both of them silent. The rain pelted the Cornucopia and added eerie music to the scene.

He didn't want to think that this could only ever be temporary. He didn't want to think how one of them would die, how both of them couldn't survive this hell. Even if he made sure she survived, made sure she won, it would mean his death, and could he really do that to her? Could he really make her happy and then take it all back, leave her alone all over again?

Maybe if someone was waiting on the outside... Maybe if He weren't dead, if he were alive, if He could pick up the pieces he sent out of the arena...

Prussia pressed his lips to her forehead, knowing there was only so much he could protect her from, only so much she would put up with being protected from.

There was one thing he did know; he would do everything he could to see her survive this ordeal. And that meant something he'd already resigned himself to years ago.

He was going to die.

* * *

**Awwww Prussia... That was cutest thing I've ever written. And the sadest. WHY, PANEM, WHY WOULD YOU SPLIT THOSE TWO LOVERS APART?**

**Wait that's what I'm doing. Tee hee, being evil is so much fun.**

**Oh my god, that was long and dramatic and there's professions of love all over the place.**

**I must say I've been dying to write Prussia/Hungary for the longest time, this scene especially, and I am so happy with it. Even if you all flame it to death I'm not going to stop loving it 3.**

**I've also noticed I have a tendency to ramble with angst. Gosh I love angst so much. Angst and blood. They both make everything more awesome.**

**Okay guys, time to wrap it up. And time for you to tell me your predictions for next chapter because you know I love them. And yes, there will be a chapter this Friday. Just not this long. This was exhausting to proofread. **


	20. Nine Left

**I…uh…we…well it's Friday, right? Right?**

…**.right?**

**Uh…I…uh…I have no excuse. I vanished for months. IT WAS WRITER'S BLOCK. TAT YOU DON'T THINK I'M IMMUNE DO YOU?**

**But, ah… I've written out the entire plot? So now no more delays, that's good right? :D right?**

…**other projects got in the way too. Blame Prussia. He's so fucking easy to write stupid stories about. SOMETIMES I NEED TO WRITE A STORY WITHOUT WORRYING ABOUT QUALITY.**

…**yah, yah, I hate me too. No promises on next chapter, but it shouldn't be **_**too**_** long. Just sit tight, this story is in two parts and we're almost to the end of the first part.**

* * *

Japan was careful to keep his distance from the trees that were still dripping with rain. The clouds overhead swirled ominously, but for now the break in weather meant he could escape for a moment and breathe.

He'd been on edge since the Games had started, and while it was nice to know where the nations were, having them so condensed in one place was pulling at his nerves. Right now they were probably arguing about something ridiculous again.

Japan kept his hand on the hilt of his sword. Even if all the countries were back at the Cornucopia, there were a few tributes he knew were still alive. He wasn't going to take the chance of being killed for being off-guard.

The trees were burnt far up into their branches. It was a shame, what Panem did to such beautiful land, in the name of entertainment. But, Japan supposed, all things considered, a few trees were probably outside his concern.

A noise startled him into drawing the sword. He stood completely still, poised to strike, listening.

The noise didn't come again. He relaxed his muscles slightly, wondering if he hadn't heard the wind through the dead branches of the trees.

He sighed after a few minutes, satisfied that he was alone, and continued his walk.

It was nice to see his friends again. Nice to see Germany and Italy, even if he couldn't trust them. He'd thought they were dead, he'd seen them die with his own eyes, hadn't he? He'd thought he had...

A hand clamped over his mouth. His arm was at the wrong angle to do any good with his sword. Something thin and cold pressed to his throat.

He reached up, to pull the hand away, to do something, anything.

The knife cut through the skin of his neck like tissue paper.

* * *

Prussia's eyes itched with sleep but he had too much to think about now. His hand absently worked through Hungary's hair as she slept, her head tucked under his chin. He stared up at the roof of the tent. A thin divider separated them from Germany and Italy. He tried to sort out the muddled nonsense floating through his head.

Fact one: Whatever anyone else might think, he knew only one person was surviving this year's Hunger Games. If there was some way to outsmart Panem, they wouldn't have lost the war to begin with.

Fact two: He loved Hungary. And she might just love him back.

Fact three: He loved his little brother. And whatever he might say, his little brother trusted him.

Fact four: In order for either of them to survive, he would have to die.

Fact five: Only one of them could survive.

Fact six: In order for one of them to survive, he would have to sacrifice the other.

Hungary sighed in her sleep and curled closer to him. He looked down at her, thinking back. As far as he could remember, they'd been together. Friends, enemies, secret admirers, their past was too complicated to decipher. But he knew her better than he knew anyone.

But Germany...was his brother. His last bit of flesh and blood. The boy he'd raised, the child he'd rescued from death. The man he'd helped through his darkest days. Could he really turn his back on him, turn on him if it came down to it?

He knew the answer. No. Never. He couldn't hurt his little brother. He couldn't stand by and watch him die.

So what was left?

Fact seven: he was screwed.

* * *

Prussia thought she was asleep. And that was fine with her. His fingers pulled gently at her hair.

She knew him. He was trying to figure something out. He was always quiet when he was thinking hard. He let out a soft frustrated groan.

She pulled closer to him and his hand paused for a moment. When he'd established that she was still asleep, it started up again.

She knew he was probably working out some elaborate scheme to make sure she survived, because it was the kind of thing he would do.

It would be pointless, of course. She'd known exactly what she was doing when she volunteered.

She wasn't entirely sure how this Games would turn out. But she owned it to Prussia, who had kept her alive for the past century, to see him out of it alive.

And if that meant dying in the process... So be it.

* * *

England wasn't sure how he'd ended up on watch again. It was time to have a serious discussion with his fellow tributes.

America's head rested in his lap, snoring softly. His glasses were pushed up his forehead, and England could see how different he looked without them.

His mind wandered freely. Years ago, centuries, really, that face had been a boy's. A child's, someone who looked at him with trust and hope and, well, love. He brushed a stray lock of hair back into place on America's forehead.

He regretted his momentary loss of control before. America was his kid brother, surely that's all he felt. But the feel of the kiss burned in his memory.

The Revolution was a hard time for him to think about. It marked a time when his kid brother had turned on him, had told him he wasn't needed anymore. England had fought a lot of wars, some of them more devastating than others, but none stood out so strongly in his mind. That seemed only to be expected.

A revolution in Panem would be more than a separation. It would destroy him. Was it even possible? Panem must have insured himself. He must be expecting it even now. England couldn't think for a moment they could catch Panem completely off-guard.

But could they overpower him? Could they turn his own people against him? Push it to the point that even he couldn't do anything?

England sighed and looked down at America. If there was anyone who could do something like that?

England couldn't think of anyone more qualified.

The canon fire made him jump.

* * *

"Who is it, who's missing?" America asked, looking at the collected faces.

"Was it someone who isn't here?" Spain yawned. Translation: Someone human who therefore better not be the reason I am awake right now.

"Maybe. Who's left?" America asked, trying to count on his fingers. He should have been paying better attention before.

"There's three, besides us." England told him.

"Okay, maybe it was and maybe it wasn't, is everyone here?" America asked, looking around. England, him, Italy, Germany, Prussia, Hungary, Spain, Romano… "Where's J…Kiku?"

There was a pause.

"He left. This morning. I saw him." England said suddenly. "I forgot-"

"Alone?" America demanded.

"Yah-"

"Where?"

"That way." England said, pointing. "Or, I think. I didn't pay much attention."

"We should go see." America said.

"What if he is dead and whoever killed him is still there?" Italy squealed.

"Then we'll all go." America said.

"What if it's a distraction so they can steal our supplies or ambush us here?" England pointed out.

"Fine, we'll split up evenly." America said, exasperated. He did a quick head-count. "Okay… four people with me to go look, four people stay here."

"I'll stay." England said immediately.

"So will I." Romano grumbled. "I'm going back to bed."

"I'll stay too, then." Spain said.

"I'll go." Prussia said, raising his hand unnecessarily.

"Then I'd better go, or he'll hurt himself again." Hungary said. Prussia opened his mouth to argue.

"I'll go." Russia offered. Prussia glowered at him.

"I don't want to go if he's going."

"Then don't." America sighed.

"Well I'm still going." Hungary said.

"Wait I change my mind." Prussia said.

"Can we decide today?" America said impatiently. "That's one more person to stay and one to go. You two haven't said anything yet." He added, turning to Germany and Italy.

"Uh…" Germany said.

"I don't want to." Italy said, ducking behind Germany.

"I'll just stay here." Germany told him.

"Then the numbers get thrown off, leave your boyfriend behind, West-" Prussia argued.

"IT DOESN'T MATTER." America said in frustration. "Prussia, Hungary, Russia, come with me. Everyone else, stay here and watch for anything abnormal. And no one run off on their own, okay? Buddy system, people."

"Who died and made you king?" Prussia asked.

"Okay, fine, you go first." America said, waving his arm out in invitation for Prussia to take the lead.

"And get strangled from behind by this?" Prussia asked, jerking his thumb at Russia, who only chuckled. "No thanks. Go ahead."

America fought the strong desire to both hit Prussia and laugh.

* * *

America nudged Japan with his foot, as if that would help.

"He's dead." Prussia observed.

"Yah.." America said, pulling his foot away, mesmerized by the bloody gash that had once been Japan's neck.

Japan. His friend. He hadn't even said two words to him in the last century. And now he was dead.

Something twisted in his stomach.

"Why is he here?" Russia asked.

"Probably because he wanted to get away from you." Prussia said immediately.

"He probably wanted some time to himself, he only talked to us once." Hungary offered, slightly more helpfully.

"No, I mean, why is he _still_ here?" Russia asked. "Shouldn't the Gamemakers have removed the body by now?"

"Russia's right." America said, turning away from the bloody mess. "That means they wanted us to find this."

"Why? So we knew it was one of us that was killed?" Hungary asked.

"I don't know… his picture would be in the sky tonight anyway." America said, thinking.

"He was murdered." Prussia said suddenly.

"Thank you, we hadn't noticed." Hungary said sarcastically.

"No, look!" Prussia insisted. "P-the Gamemakers didn't kill him, or the monster thing that killed Axel and fucked you up. A knife did that. That means it was a tribute."

"What tribute though? One of the three left?" America asked.

"Or one of us." Russia added.

There was a moment of silence when they examined each other.

"I bet he did it." Prussia said, unsurprisingly.

"Prussia-" Hungary tried

"No, come on, I'm serious, look at my shoulder! He's not exactly innocent!" Prussia insisted.

"Not that you'd believe me, but I didn't do it." Russia commented, looking on at the argument in amusement.

"Who's going to believe you though?" Prussia demanded.

"I do." America said.

"No offense, to either of you," Hungary said slowly. "But why?"

"Because if he wanted to kill any of us, he could have done it back at camp. Anyway, Arthur was on watch and the only person he saw leave camp was Kiku."

"But he was leaning against the Cornucopia, he could have snuck around back." Prussia pointed out angrily. "Or maybe Arthur did it, I wouldn't put it past him. He could, if he wanted."

"He's done nothing but keep us from fighting each other, why would he?" America demanded.

"Maybe he only wanted to keep us from turning on him. He'll wipe us out one by one." Prussia insisted.

America stared at him. "You're very paranoid."

"That's what I've been saying." Russia said.

"Maybe it's you, I don't know!" Prussia said angrily. "You did get a twelve, how'd you do that, huh?"

"Oh shut up, you have a vague idea, I'm sure." America said, annoyed. Well his strength wasn't exactly a secret.

"Maybe I do and maybe I don't." Prussia said mysteriously. Or, rather, with a mysterious tone. "Maybe you've got friends in high places."

Prussia had struck a nerve.

"And maybe you just need to stop accusing everyone of doing something they haven't! Have you trusted anyone, ever?" America exploded.

"How do you think I've stayed alive so long?" Prussia snapped back. "Not by declaring the innocence of anyone with a pair of sad eyes, that's for sure-"

America hit him.

He hadn't even meant to do it. Just, suddenly, Prussia was bleeding from the temple and America hand hurt like _hell_.

He regretted it instantly.

"I…crap." America said, shaking out his hand. What, was Prussia's head made of concrete? He was positive at least two of his fingers were broken. He hadn't even swung that hard. "I..are you okay?" he asked tentatively.

Prussia shook head, spattering them with drops of blood. "Fuck, what was that for?"

"I…didn't…mean to." America said, biting his lip. "You're okay, right?"

"Fuck no!" Prussia said, massaging his head. Blood oozed from between his fingers.

"He's fine." Hungary said after a moment. "No concussion. And he had it coming anyway."

"Did not!"

"Did."

"We should… get back." America said slowly, breaking up the argument.

"Come on Prussia, you're _fine_." Hungary prodded.

"Sorry!" America said suddenly. "I really didn't mean to."

"Whatever." Prussia waved his apology away. "I'll get you back."

America made a mental note to sleep with one eye open. He didn't doubt Prussia would keep his word. He cursed silently. He really didn't need _another _reason to keep everyone from trusting one-another…

* * *

"Well? Who was it?" England called, standing up again. "What…What the hell happened to you?"

"Shut up." Prussia warned him, jabbing a bloody finger in his direction. "Just shut up."

He disappeared back into his tent, closely followed by Hungary.

"So…what did happen?" England asked as America approached, looked distracted.

"I..uh…" he said slowly, massaging his hand.

"Alfred and Gilbert had a disagreement." Russia said gleefully.

"You punched him?" England demanded angrily.

"He was being an ass!" America defended half-heartedly.

"Alfred…" England said in exasperation. "You know you can't just go hitting people when you're mad."

"I know." America said, looking down at his feet. He looked, for all the world, like he had as a colony, caught doing something he shouldn't.

"So who was it, did you find out?"

America opened his mouth but Russia answered for him.

"Kiku. Killed by a fellow tribute." he said, as if commenting on the weather. "Did you see anyone else last night?"

"No." England said immediately. "I didn't… Kiku left early in the morning, before anyone else was awake. No one was up before the canon went off."

"Then it was one of the three tributes still out there." America said thoughtfully. "And they're a threat. Kiku wasn't exactly defenseless. They could march into camp any minute."

"So why didn't they?" Russia asked.

"Why didn't they what?" America looked up at him.

"Come into camp." Russia said. "We were sleeping, if they overpowered Kiku, they were probably strong enough or powerful enough to take us out here."

"No." Prussia had reappeared, and England was relieved to see his head has stopped bleeding. He didn't need America getting into more trouble.

"What do you mean, no?" America asked, annoyed.

"I mean, didn't you see?" Prussia snapped. "Kiku never even got his sword out. If they overpowered him, there would at least have been a fight. His hand was on the handle, but it wasn't out."

"…So?" America asked.

Prussia groaned. "Come on, stupid, think. That means he had maybe a second before they cut his throat. Whoever they are, they didn't overpower him. They snuck up on him."

"Oh." America said. "You're right, huh?"

"It does happen on occasion." Prussia said dryly.

"So what's that mean for us?" Hungary asked.

"That we're keeping the buddy system." America said. "We can't go wandering alone anymore. Obviously they're not a threat against numbers."

"There's an odd number of people, America." England pointed out.

"Are there really?" America asked.

"You just counted an hour ago." England reminded him. "When you took a group out to see Kiku-"

"Right, right." America waved his comment away before he'd finished it. "Well, whatever, let's see, you two, I assume, and Ludwig and Feliciano, obviously, and Antonio and Lovino, and me and Arthur, and…" he trailed off and looked at Russia.

"If it is power they fear, are you really concerned about me?" Russia asked.

"Well, it's not a good idea to leave someone on their own…"

"I'll be fine." Russia assured him.

"I'm all for letting him wander around on his own." Prussia said.

America waved his comment away impatiently. "I guess…but… don't go wandering around by yourself."

"I'll do my best."

* * *

**...polls are updated.**

...I** love you?**


	21. Eight Left

**WHUT, UPDATING REGULARLY? WHAT'S THAT?**

**God…life is just..you know? Also Unwell has seriously dominated my fanfiction brain cells. Stupid random not this fanfiction fanfictions. SCREW YOU. NO ONE WANTS TO READ A SOAP OPERA IN FANFICTION FORM.**

**Well apparently they do, but God knows why…**

**OKAY, DOWN TO BUISNESS. WE'RE GETTING DOWN TO THE WIRE SO THIS CHAPTER'S POLL WILL BE THE LAST ONE. AFTER THAT I'LL ACTUALLY USE THE DAMN SPONSOR POINTS OR WHATEVER THEY ARE.**

* * *

Three days later, they counted three tributes in the night sky.

"Does that mean we're the only ones left?" Italy whimpered.

"What about whoever killed Kiku?" America asked, looking up at the last face. "Are they dead, or…"

"If they are, who killed them?" Russia pointed out.

"Or one of us is the murderer." Prussia said.

"If it was one of us that did it, wouldn't they have attacked again?" America asked.

"Maybe they were waiting for us to let our guards down." Prussia shrugged.

"Well then it backfired, because if they attack now, we'll know they're here."

"Does anyone else feel like we're forgetting someone?" England said, breaking apart the developing fight.

"What?" America asked.

"I don't know, I just feel like…we've forgotten someone." England shrugged.

America's first instinct was Canada, but, no, that wasn't right, because Canada wasn't in the Games… "I don't know..I don't think so."

England shrugged. "It's probably nothing."

America scratched his healing face distractedly.

"Stop that." England scolded.

"What?"

"You're going to give yourself scars." England told him, pulling his hand away from his face.

"Too late."

"Shut up." England snapped.

* * *

"Hey. Hey Arthur! Look!" America called.

"Uh huh. That's neat, Alfred."

"You're not even looking!"

"I'm looking. I swear."

"You are not!" America insisted. "Hey loo-AH! Oh, wait, I'm okay."

"Alfred don-ALFRED GET DOWN." England shouted, looking up finally. America waved to him from the top of the Cornucopia.

"I thought you were already looking." America asked.

"Shut up and get off of there before you fall!" England called angrily. "You're going to break your neck!"

"Am not!" America insisted. "You can see so far up here-"

"Alfred!"

"What? Axel did it all the time and _he_ never fe-"

"Axel is dead! Get the hell down!"

"He didn't die falling!" America said stubbornly.

"Alfred I swear to God if you don't get down I will-"

"You'll what?" America asked, kicking the Cornucopia with his feet. "You gonna send me to my room?"

"Alfred stop being stubborn." England said angrily.

"Never!" America stood up and England's stomach jumped.

"Alfred, get _down_!"

America thought for a moment and then grinned. "Okay, Artie."

Before England had time to be suspicious, America jumped from his perch to the ground. He landed awkwardly and wound up on the ground, laughing.

"Alfred! Are you okay?" England asked, leaning over him.

"That was…THAT WAS AWESOME!" America bounced to his feet again. "I have to do that again!"

"Wh-Absolutely not!" England grabbed his arm and pulled. "Sit down!"

America dropped to the ground like a stone, crossing his arms angrily. "Fine! You're such a fucking _bore._"

"Just sit there, would you?" England sighed, sitting next to him. "Can we worry less about having fun and more about staying alive?"

"Yah. Maybe."

"'Yes, Arthur, I will try not to kill myself.'"

"Yes, Mr. Bore, I will do my best not to commit suicide." America said, falling back and looking up. "Hey, if we're the only ones still in the arena, what are they gonna do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, like, if we just sit here." America said. "What if we just hang out and don't kill anyone?"

England looked up too, watching the sky slowly turn red. Honestly? He didn't trust any of the remaining tributes at all. Eventually, they would turn on each other. Especially with Russia in the middle of things.

"They'll find a way to turn us against one another." England said.

America sighed. "Do you think anyone will try very hard not to start killing each other?"

"We've made it this far, haven't we?"

"But we've just been running from the others!" America insisted. "Hiding. Now the whole 'strength in numbers' thing is pointless."

England sighed. "I don't know, Alfred."

"Would you turn on me? If your life depended on it?" America asked suddenly, turning to look at him.

The question caught England off-guard. "Wh..what?"

"Would you?" America insisted. "If it was just you and me in the arena, would you kill me? If I asked you to?"

"I…" England looked at him. "I…no, I don't…think I would."

America sat up. "Really?"

"Well would you kill me?" England demanded.

"No." America said immediately. "Heroes don't kill people, they sacrifice themselves."

"Of course that's why." England said. "You'd kill yourself if it was a stranger with a pretty face."

"What's that supposed to mean?" America asked angrily.

"Nothing." England said, standing up and brushing himself off. "Absolutely nothing."

"What, you wouldn't kill yourself if it _wasn't_ me?" America asked.

"Probably not!" England said. "I don't have a death wish!"

America scrambled to his feet too. "I don't have a death wish!"

"I'm taking a walk." England announced loudly. "I could go for a bloody walk."

He turned to go and America grabbed his arm. "Hey, wait, you can't just leave-"

"Why the bloody hell not?" England demanded. "Because you're worried if I just drop dead you won't seem like the hero anymore?"

"That's not why I don't want you to die!" America protested.

"And why _don't_ you want me to go off and get killed?" England demanded.

"Because, you…I don't want to not see you anymore." America said haltingly. England laughed.

"Well, what if I just stormed away?" America demanded, ears turning red. "What would you do then?"

"I'd follow you." England said immediately, without thinking.

America hesitated. "Why?"

"What kind of question is that?" England countered, suddenly embarrassed. "You're the one who…who signed us up to be partners, aren't you?"

"Why haven't you just run off by now?" America demanded. "You and your twelve. You'd probably be able to out-survive all of us without even trying."

"Because then you'd probably wind up killing yourself!"

"So?"

"So what?"

"So why does that matter?" America pressed. "Why would you even care if I died or not? It would mean you'd survive!"

"Because...I…" England stumbled for an answer.

"Because why?" America shouted. "Well?"

"Because I love you, okay?" England said, shoving him. "Is that fucking good enough for you?"

America hesitated and immediately England felt his face go scarlet. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to say that _at all_. America and the stress and...

"I didn't…" he said, taking a step back. "As..as your brother."

The damage had been done. America opened his mouth, and for one heart-stopping second England thought he was going to say it back, but he just shut it again and pushed past England, towards the trees. In a matter of seconds, he had vanished.

England stayed frozen to the spot for a few more seconds before turning and running after him. "Alfred! Damn it, you're going to _kill_ yourself…!"

* * *

America pushed through the trees. The sun was setting and the ground was covered in blood-red, turning the forest into something from his nightmares, something stained wet with gore.

He shook the memories from his mind and tore through the trees, shoving several hard enough for their roots to creek ominously, but he didn't care. Because if he put enough space between him and England he wouldn't have to think about it anymore. He wouldn't have to think about England, about his big brother, the person he always remembered turning to when he needed help most, the person he could always trust.

He was a country, he defied the limits of age and blood. He knew countries paired with others centuries older, and that was certainly the case here, and that blood relation held no more meaning that the ties between brothers. The relationships between, say, Prussia and Germany, or the Italians, or him and Canada, were only what they were meant to be. Brotherly love or..something more, whatever the situation called for.

He'd certainly never thought about Canada that way. Canada was..Canada. His twin brother.

England was his older brother. That made it different, somehow…It…just…

America slowed to a walk, knowing he'd put enough space between himself and the Cornucopia that even if someone followed him now, they'd never catch up. England was….England.

But did any of that matter? They might die any second. America looked around curiously. Any moment now, something could jump at him, or shock him, or poison him, or throw him into a pit of spikes…just by running of on his own he could have very well killed himself. Did he really want to say he loved anyone, really, anyone, here, where the next second it might be stolen from him? He'd never told anyone he'd loved them before. Sure, there had been girls, and sometimes boys. Humans, playthings, really. This was different. He couldn't outlive this, or disappear. Whatever happened, England would always be around…unless, of course, the worse happened, but America didn't really want to think about that right now.

For the first time, he admired Prussia and Hungary's courage. Before they'd been nothing more than cute, but suddenly their relationship shone with new light. They were willing to risk all that pain for a few moments together.

Could he do that? Could he really connect to someone like that and then watch it disappear, or, worse, take it away from _them_? What if he was wrong? What if this year's Hunger Games would end just like every other? It wasn't like he could just pull off another Katniss. Panem wouldn't buy into that, he was prepared, America knew. America knew Panem was far too smart for that. He'd always been too smart for him.

America pushed through the charred leaves, realizing he'd come to the edge of the fire. The trees here were burnt, the black fingers reaching up unnaturally high, a result of Panem's engineering. He stood there, at the edge of the burnt forest and the living. Two worlds. He'd come to the end of one and was looking at another, something that stretched ahead, a mystery until it was explored.

That's what heroes did, right? They explored. They went where no one else had dared to go. America took a step forward. And another. And another. The momentum caught up with him and he was running again, running through the burnt forest, letting charred bark and branches leave black streaks on his face and shirt. He'd left his jacket behind, but he didn't need it. Sweat dripped down his chin and stained his filthy shirt. It felt so _good_ to run, for no reason, towards nothing, away from nothing, just to _run_.

He laughed, and, like his first few steps into the dead forest, once he'd started, he couldn't stop. He was laughing, tears streaking down his face, leaving clean paths through the ash. Maybe he was crazy…

He stopped suddenly, skidding to a halt and throwing ash into the air. It settled on the grass, clean, green, living grass. A field stretched before him dotted with enormous boulders here and there. A long way off, he saw something moving across the field. Not a muttation…a bull. An ordinary bull.

The fire hadn't reached this place. It was only in the trees, isolated in its own little world. America reveled in the sharp contrast, the light and dark, the life and death, the line drawn so cleanly along the ground, stretching so far in both directions it faded away to a pinpoint that he couldn't see.

The sun was almost gone. The sky was red, dotted with purple clouds. America watched, wondering when the last time he'd watched the sun go down was. Maybe not for a hundred years…

He watched it sink, waiting until just the right moment…

_Ten,_ he thought. _Nine…eight..seven…_

The sun sank, matching his counting. He grinned, a thousand nights spent with nothing better to do had made him an expert at knowing just when to start the countdown.

_Four, three, two…_

Maybe life wasn't quite as bleak as he'd thought. Maybe he shouldn't run away from something before he'd given it a chance.

_One…_

The canon went off just before the sun cleared the horizon.

* * *

America tore through the trees, shoving them out of his way. The fire had destroyed their roots and they crashed, sometimes taking others with them. America ignored the mess he was created, too busy trying to get back to the Cornucopia. Who was it?

The knot in his gut told him he had an idea, but he ignored it. When had his stupid gut been right, anyway?

He reached the edge of the green, living forest. If he wasn't fast enough, Panem would take their body and he wouldn't know how they died…He had to know…

He stopped suddenly, looking through the trees. He'd sworn he'd seen someone. Or something. He paused, listening hard, unsure. Was he just imagining things?

He walked forward slowly, suddenly aware that he was at the mercy of Panem here, alone, in the middle of a forest. But nothing jumped at him. Somehow, that made him more nervous.

Something was on the ground ahead of him. Was it whoever had set off the canon? America swallowed thickly, creeping forward. The knot in his stomach tightened.

No. This was one of Panem's tricks. The canon probably wasn't even real. He was delusional, he'd probably walked through some spray and was insane right now.

America collapsed to his knees by the body that simply wasn't a body. Couldn't be a body. His hand reached out, terrified, and touched the sandy blond hair, half-expecting it to vanish like smoke under his touch.

_No…no…no no no no…_ Tears were running down his face, sweeping away the ash and sweat. Terrified, horrified, America grabbed his shoulder and threw him over.

He scrambled back, trying to find some way to deny this, trying to reason with what was so plainly there. Trying to will away the familiar face, the thick eyebrows that had just started growing back, the green eyes, wide with shock, the thin red line almost gracefully drawn across his neck.

"Arthur…no.." America couldn't stand to look at him, at the empty way his eyes pleaded for help that America couldn't give. He didn't know how long he sat like that, afraid and absorbed, watching his older brother, his would-be lover, turn cold.

Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore. He reached out with a trembling hand and slid his eyelids closed. He was almost…sleeping. America stroked his hair staring at his peaceful face, lit by starlight. How many nights had England done this to him? While he lay recovering from his muttation wounds? Had he wondered if America would wake up, if he would ever see America's eyes open again? The way America watched now, willing England's green, emerald eyes to peel back, to tell him that everything was alright, that he really didn't look very gentlemanly when he cried…

America bent down and kissed Arthur's forehead, and then, because it seemed wrong not to, his lips. Both were cold. Both tasted of death. America couldn't care less.

"I love you." he murmured. He didn't know if the words were plutonic or something more, and it didn't matter. He never would. They were true, and that was all he needed to know.

He knew that the moment he left, they would take him away. They would carry him away to be put in a box and shipped back to District eight. What waited for him there? Was there anyone there to care?

He couldn't bear to let England leave him yet. He pulled him into his arms, cradling him gently as if he were still able to care. England was dead. But that didn't mean he'd died in vain.

* * *

"EVERYONE GET OUT HERE." America's voice held more power than he'd expected. His grief had condensed to anger. "NOW!"

Nations approached curiously. They'd heard the canon, now they wanted to know what it meant. As if they _cared_. As if it _mattered_ to them that England was dead.

America set him down as softly as he could, looking around at the gathered countries. There were murmurs, in different tongues, in different accents. The dregs of the world, gathered here, like some twisted World Conference, like England's body were some new problem they would have to solve.

America looked at them all. They were dregs. They were beaten and weak. They were so few. But America felt something he hadn't in a long time. He felt _angry_, truly, honestly, _angry_, not at the person who had cut England's throat, although they would pay in their own right, but at Panem. This was his fault. He had reduced them to this. They were the dregs, but he'd started out as the dregs of countries, their bits and pieces had made him who he was. And now their bits and pieces would make one whole again.

"Someone did this." America said, and again, he was surprised that his voice was not raspy, or weak, as it sounded in his head. He sounded stronger than he had in years.

"I bet it was him." Prussia said immediately, pointing to Russia.

"I have no grief with Arthur." Russia said. "Maybe it was the one eager to point fingers."

"It could have been any of us." Italy whimpered.

"It doesn't matter who it was." America said, and they fell silent. "_I_ know who killed him. Who killed Natalia and Vash and Kiku and Axel."

Their circle was silent. America stared at each one of them, taking in the look of fear or anger he saw on each one. Who it was directed against, America wasn't sure.

He turned away from the circle, away from England, towards the forest, throwing his arms wide. "President Snow, do you see me now? Do your Gamemakers know who I am, I wonder? What have you told them? I know you've known from the beginning. Maybe you planned it this way. I don't know how a monster's mind works." America dropped his arms and glanced over his shoulder, just once, at the frozen group he'd left behind. "Am I still on your screens? Or is this just between us? There's no one else to show now! And if you turn away, then won't they know you're hiding something from them?"

America took a deep breath, and kept his head level, squaring his jaw. It didn't matter where he looked. Panem's cameras would catch every angle. "My name is the United States of America."

He paused. "I was born from blood. The Europeans that fought for my soil, the natives that fought to keep it, the invaders that turned on each other and turned my shores red. I was born in blood, and I lived in blood. I rebelled, I turned on myself, I expanded. I never stopped for long enough to wonder why it was I did what I did. I did it because I could."

"And your country, your Panem, your _President Snow_. He was born of blood." America continued. "He was born of _my_ blood. And he continues to shed yours, his own people. He does not stop, or think, or wonder, where he goes. I am not going to delude myself into thinking that I am old, that I am wise. I am four hundred years old. I am an infant. But I know where he is going. He is driving you, me, us, into the ground. To the destruction he claims he saved you from."

"Once, I was small, and weak, and furious. I thought there was nothing I could do. I hated the thumb I was under." America glanced back again. "I was England's plaything. His toy, with which to build his empire. I was not strong enough, in his eyes, to be respected. To deserve the respect he demanded of me. I know what it feels like to think there is nothing you can do when someone presses you back, tells you that you are worthless, you are a waste of time, that you cannot do anything because you are weak. And you are! You are separated, you stand alone, and you are weak."

"My name is the United States of America." America repeated. "People of Panem, people of the Districts, of the Capitol. Panem's army is small compared to you. I don't care if I stand alone. But I won't stand under Panem's shadow anymore. And all I ask is that you join me."

He looked back again. "The man Panem killed was England. He wanted me to stand here and tell you what I was afraid to. I wish he could see me now. Maybe you know how he died, maybe it doesn't matter. He would stand here with me."

There was a pause, during which America half-expected to be shot down by the Gamemakers. But nothing happened. Nothing attacked, or moved, or breathed. It was completely silent in the arena. For the first time, America wondered if his message had gotten through.

Suddenly, someone behind him spoke.

"I am the Russian Federation." Russia came to stand by him. "And I stand with America here."

America was, honestly, a little surprised. He hadn't expected any of them to follow his example, let alone Russia. Russia beamed down at him in that eerie way of his.

"I'm the Italian Republic!" Italy said eagerly, running to join them. "And I agree with America. Panem's been killing people for too long. I miss home."

"_We're_ the Italian Republic, dipshit." Romano said angrily, coming to join his brother.

"Fuck this, I'm the Kingdom of Prussia, and if any of you exist, so do I." Prussia said determinedly, marching forward. "So there."

"The Republic of Hungary." Hungary said, coming to stand by Prussia, to no one's surprise.

Spain shrugged. "If you think this will solve our problems… I'm the Kingdom of Spain." He stepped forward, leaving one nation left to declare themselves.

"West, join the crowd for once!" Prussia shouted.

Germany hesitated, and then stepped forward. "The Federal Republic of Germany."

America turned and laughed towards Panem's cameras. "You hear that, Panem? We're willing to tell you to fuck off. I'm sure we're not the only ones."

Behind them, a hovercraft silently removed England's body.

* * *

Like he'd known it would, Canada's door was thrown open. He scurried to the far side of his room, out of Panem's furious reach.

"Your _brother_ has sparked a riot outside." Panem growled, snatching him by the collar. He pressed Canada to the window. "Do you see? Do you see what trouble he causes?"

Canada didn't know how to diffuse his anger. It seemed like Panem would be happy throwing him through the window.

Instead, he pulled him away, dragging him towards the door. Canada protested weakly but it went unheard by Panem's ears. He was muttering to himself, running his fingers through his hair angrily, pressing it closer to his head.

He threw open a door at last and forced Canada through it, nearly pushing him to the floor. Canada scrambled away from him as he slammed the door.

They weren't alone. Men and women paced the room, ignoring them completely, muttering to themselves and to each other, pointing to the screens lining the walls. The room was dark, the screens providing the only light. It reflected bizarrely off them, making them seem as if they were glowing with some otherworldly light.

Gamemakers. Running their games. Canada turned back to Panem, terrified. What was he doing now?

"Bring up their numbers." Panem barked. Immediately, several screens were cleared and replaced with lines and numbers that meant nothing to Canada.

"Do you know what this is?" Panem demanded. It took Canada a moment to realize he was talking to him.

"N..no."

"It's your brother's heartbeat." Panem said. Suddenly the numbers fell into place. A heartbeat, a measurement for each of them. Canada watched his brother's anxiously.

"I can stop it." He said. "I can send an electrical current straight to his heart through his tracker. I can kill him, and it wouldn't take more energy than changing the channel."

"Please-!"

"I won't do it." Panem said calmly. "Not yet, at least. But I need something in return, Canada."

Canada nodded quickly.

"I'm calling in my favor. You will speak to the public. You will calm them. You will tell them America and his friends are deranged, that you and I are the ones they should trust."

"You..you want me to turn them on America." Canada said.

"It is what needs to be done." Panem said. "You aren't going to turn on me now, are you? I would so hate to kill America now…There's no one else in the games you care about, is there? There's no guilt in letting him win, now, is there?"

Canada stared at him wordlessly, eyes flickering between the screen and Panem.

"Well?" Panem asked. "I just have to give the order now, it won't take a second…"

"Okay!" Canada said finally. "Alright..I'll..I'll speak for you."

"Best decide what you're going to say." Panem said, smiling. He turned to one of his workers. "Take Mr. Williams back to his room, please."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Panem frowned at the screens. He'd known America would be a problem from the start. He just hadn't realized that the others would be so strong behind him. Stupidity must be contagious…

"Sir, what are we going to do about them?" one of his Gamemakers asked.

"What?"

"The…the tributes." The man stumbled over his words nervously under the intense glare Panem was giving him. "They..they won't turn on each other now."

Panem paused, and then smiled.

"So we make them."

* * *

**Bah it was short, and late, but I am BUSY and this story takes way more energy to write than Unwell. I can just sort of spazz with Unwell..**

**OKAY. OKAY. THEY REVEALED THEIR SECRET AND ENGLAND IS DEAD. DID I FORGET ANYTHING?**

**You have NO. IDEA. How long it took me to perfect that scene. Like, I've been trying to figure it out since I started this story. Just like WHAT. WHAT DO I…WHAT.**

**Okay now you're mad because England's dead and happy because they told ppl what they are. GO FORTH AND EXPRESS THAT WITH YOUR REVIEWING POWERS.**

**As always, ilu~**


	22. Seven Left

**WHAT? WHAT? YUP. IT'S AN UPDATE.**

**Alkjflgjasdf I'm so sorry you guys. I just…I'm…so sorry. I just…got massive writer's block with this story. I know what's **_**supposed**_** to happen, I just didn't…have the energy to flesh it out. Summer, man. It exhausted me.**

**I'll try and keep up this time, I swear it. I think the main problem was I didn't like having so much action in one chapter and tried to space it out but…Yah, I gave up on that. So this is a very action-packed chapter. Or so I think, maybe I'm just crazy.**

**I stopped the polls, I did use them to decide who's been dying and such, and now all deaths are set in stone, however many there may be. I tried to give them more meaning but…to be honest…it was way too much effort…Maybe someday I'll try and make a story like that but for now…I'm good.**

**Not my longest chapter but…ah…I tried.**

* * *

Panem was waiting for him.

"Are you ready?" he asked with a smile. Canada shivered. There was nothing right about that smile.

Panem's hand was hard on his arm. Canada followed, trying to control himself, trying to clear his thoughts. He had to speak. He had to tell people to listen to Panem, because that would keep his brother alive. America would hate him if he knew, but at least he would be alive.

He could hear the crowd waiting for them. They had turned anxious, even violent, since the announcements. They wanted to know what was going on. They wanted the truth.

And Canada was supposed to lie to them.

They burst through the doors amid an announcement Canada only half heard, Panem pulling him towards the podium waiting. His hand turned gentle. His smile was softer, kinder. He wanted people to think he was a gracious, kind, loving leader.

It was all lies, of course.

"People of Panem!" he called into the microphone. His let go of Canada. He knew he wouldn't run. There was nowhere to go. The stage was surrounded by his Peacekeepers. Canada looked nervously at his feet as the rioting quieted.

"People of Panem." Panem repeated. "First, may I apologize to you. I have kept you in the dark, and I shouldn't have. You have the right to know who I am. Who I truly am."

The crowd was on its toes, leaning forward, listening. They wanted to hear the words from his mouth. They wanted an explanation that would make everything make sense again. Their perfect, comfortable world had been uprooted, and they wanted to know how he would fix that.

Canada listened dully as he explained, explained that yes, he was Panem, that yes, all surviving tributes were the ex-countries. He did his best to explain how, and why, but it was weak. Canada couldn't have done better, really. None of them really understood why they existed.

"But don't listen to me." Canada's stomach twisted. "You know Alfred, America, from the Games. You cheered for him. You recognize his brother, don't you?"

Panem's smile was crooked. He was winning, and he knew it. Canada stared at the screens around them, showing them his own face, pale, terrified. He looked so young.

"Canada?"

Panem stepped away from the podium. Canada stared at it for a moment, as if expecting it to lash out and bite him, but it stayed innocent. Just a hunk of wood. He slowly took his place, standing behind the podium and microphone, listening to the sudden quiet. Panem smiled and retreated to the far side of the stage, where he had a better view of Canada's mental anguish.

Canada cleared his throat. The sound reverberated loudly back at him, amplified a million times. His own violet eyes stared back at him, frightened, from the hanging screens around them.

"M..my name…is Canada."

* * *

It was quiet. It was always quiet at night.

America stared at the sky. What happened to a country that died? Where did they go?

"Would you stop?" Hungary giggled in the distance.

"But I like the way your hair smells!"

"Prussia, that's weird, I haven't washed it in weeks!" Hungary laughed, pushing him away. Prussia tackled her and pressed his face to the crook of her neck. America could hear him inhale deeply and Hungary giggled again.

He watched them from where he sat on the Cornucopia, legs dangling over the rim.

"It's stupid, isn't it?"

America looked down. Russia stood in the opening of the horn.

"It's doomed." America said quietly.

"So you believe there will be one winner of the Hunger Games this year?"

America shrugged. "Who knows? But I know Panem. He'll stop it, just to remind us that he can."

"New love is so beautiful." Russia said. America laughed hollowly.

"That isn't new love. That's about four centuries of repressed, two-sided longing."

"It's still beautiful."

* * *

Canada closed his eyes. Immediately, America came to mind.

_How could you, Matt?_ Even in his imagination, America was disappointed with him. _After I tried so hard? After England and everyone else died? You're just going to let him win like that_?

_I can't lose you!_ Matt protested.

Alfred shook his head. _I always thought you were braver that that, Matt._

Canada opened his eyes again, looking down at the crowd. He had a choice to make.

"People of P…anem." he said nervously. "President S..Snow….Panem…has asked me to tell you who your true enemies are today. Th..the people you should be blaming for the shortages and sec..urity breaches." Panem had told him what to say, how to blame the countries. "He wa..wanted me to tell you….who's responsible…"

Canada looked out over the sea of faces. They were painted, and dyed, and tattooed, and stained, and shaped, and styled. But they were still citizens. Some had been his once, or their ancestors had been. Many more had been American.

_I always thought you were braver than that._

Canada gripped the podium. "You ask who to blame, for your hunger, your poverty, your misery? You ask who let your children die, who watched as you begged for help, for medicine, for food, for mercy?"

He could hear the change in his voice, the rise in anxiety. And certainty. This wouldn't end well for him. But that wasn't going to stop him.

"You ask who?" Canada's voice boomed through the silent crowd. "Your President Snow. Your Panem."

The world was suddenly upside-down.

* * *

A little farther in the distance, Spain combed at Romano's hair with his fingers. Romano cursed and squirmed as Spain happily sang some little foreign song, but he didn't move away. America was naïve and usually oblivious, but he wasn't stupid. Even he could see affection when he saw it. Maybe even love.

"Germany!" Italy appeared on the other side of the Cornucopia, dragging Germany across the grass. "Come see!"

"Stop it." Germany mumbled, face slightly red.

"But it's so pretty down here in the forest-"

"The forest burnt down."

"There's new flowers all over the ground, though!" Italy cried. "Come on, they're so pretty-!"

"They're probably poisonous."

Italy continued to drag him towards the gnarled trees, where America could, in fact, see the faint hints of green as new plants pushed up out of the ash.

"The world needs more love." Russia said quietly.

America mused on that. "Maybe that's what got us in trouble in first place. Love makes you stupid."

* * *

He'd been shot before, but never on national television. This was a whole new experience. He clung to the podium, eyes fixed on the screens, screens that showed him to the entire country, as he clung to the podium and tried to remember how to breathe.

"Do you see?" he shouted, voice shaking. "Do you see what they do? How can you trust him?"

Canada lost his grip on the podium as Panem shoved him to the ground, towering over him.

"You've just killed yourself and your brother." Panem whispered, too quietly for the microphone to hear.

"Worth it." Canada grunted.

* * *

America shifted, scratching an open sore on his arm he couldn't remember getting. He was covered with them. No big deal.

"You know what I can't figure out?"

"Hmm?"

"Why do it like this?" America asked, stretching out his sore back. "Why not just find us, pick us off one by one. Why give us a chance to out him?"

Russia sighed. "As difficult as it is to admit, America, I believe Panem expected this. He probably has something for just this, to turn the tables his way."

"What else could he do to us?" America muttered. "Why doesn't he just kill us now? We've told the Districts, everyone knows, there's no reason to keep us alive."

Russia chuckled, a very cold, humorless sound. "Have you forgotten? Smile, America. We're on television."

It occurred to him that the entire conversation had been the viewing pleasure of every citizen of Panem. Unless, of course, for whatever reason, the adorable antics of star-crossed lovers were more interesting right now. But if there was one thing America knew about, and in hindsight he was starting to think there was, it was good television. Suicidal conversations always got more viewers than a few kisses.

And Panem had no reason to hide it. He had them by the shorthairs. He'd won. All that was left was to kill them on national television.

He glared up at the overcast sky. It took him a minute, but he finally saw it. The tiny parachute floating on the breeze like a dandelion seed. America pushed himself to his feet, reaching for it. Impatient, he jumped for it, grabbing hold of it and collapsing to the ground, landing somewhat awkwardly, but hey, everything still worked.

"What is it?" Russia asked. America shook the sting out of the hand he'd landed on and pulled at the strings tying it together.

"It's…food." America said, somewhat surprised. "There's…enough for all of us."

It wasn't good food, but it was food. They'd been eating the remains of the supplies in the Cornucopia, but even those were starting to run out. America pulled away a chunk of bread, the only District 12 roll here, intending to climb back onto his perch on the Cornucopia.

Something caught his eye, just under the bread. He pulled it free, a slip of paper, folded once. He stuck the bread in his mouth and flipped it open curiously.

Around him, the others had crept from their far corners of the clearing for their food. He ignored them, staring at the message scrawled to him in bright red. Not even a message, really. One word. One very persuasive word.

"A message from Panem?" Russia asked over his shoulder.

"A message to me." America said quietly.

"What is it?"

America shook his head for a moment. He wasn't sure what he meant, that he wouldn't tell him, that he didn't really know…

"Mathew."

* * *

It was hard to decide what surprised him more. The fact that he was actually alive, or that he was...comfortable.

Still, comfortable or not, it would take a lot more than silence to convince him he was alone. Although he didn't have much to lose at this point, really. He opened his eyes to see the rather familiar ceiling hovering some twenty feet above him. He sat up, careful of the thick bandages tight against his chest, but nothing seemed to hurt.

He was alone. Well, as alone as possible with a camera aimed at him, but that was negligible. No one was in the room, _his_ room, which was baffling. An attempt to start a revolution and he'd been shot and locked in his room? That was it? Was he really such a minimal threat?

_America_ would at least get a guard…Canada tried not to let it bother him. He'd already proved that being underestimated only worked to his advantage.

He was hesitant about getting up, but his chest really wasn't hurting. He was tempted to pull away the bandages and see just what they'd done to him, but for the moment, he was alright with it. If he messed with it and broke the spell he'd never forgive himself.

He took the blanket with him, wrapping it around his cold shoulders as he stumbled towards the window. The zoom feature had been deactivated. Canada stared down at the streets, expecting to see riots, to see people protesting, but there was nothing. Nothing. As if everything had been for naught. As if the whole world had dismissed him without knowing who he was, and wasn't that always the problem?

"Morons." he muttered, turning away. What the hell did they know, anyway? They were bastards. And so was Panem. Canada flipped the switch on the television as he walked by. The Games were on, like they always were. He didn't pay much attention. America wasn't on right now, and it seemed like everyone else was busy being adorable. He didn't need to be sick to his stomach on top of everything else.

They were eating. It seemed while he'd been out a basket had been sent. Which was strange, but maybe the tributes' mentors had decided to pool their funds, considering everyone was so friendly with each other at this point. Maybe they hoped they'd start fighting over food or something.

The camera panned over all over them. Romano was bickering with Spain again, Italy was slowly picking apart his bread as Germany attempted to convince him to eat it, Prussia and Hungary had disappeared into their tent, and there was America, talking with Russia.

The only thing he could hear was Romano shouting, so he had to assume whatever America and Russia were talking about was either insignificant or not meant for civilian ears. Canada scoffed and watched his brother slowly chew his way through the tough drop biscuit usually associated with District 12. He was holding something Canada couldn't see from this angle, staring at it and then up at Russia as he spoke.

Even enemies were friends here. Long after the Cold War, Canada had a hard time remembering seeing America and Russia in a room together without snapping at each other. It ranged from almost playful to dangerous, and between such large countries, it was always in everyone's best interest to divide them. Yet here they sat, eating the respective District foods, calmly exchanging words as if this were any other day. Even more than that, this was the friendliest Canada had seen them since…well always, really. None of them looked like they should, like animals up for slaughter, they were…friendly. Almost happy.

Not just almost. They were happy. Happy about this reunion, however brief or tragic it might be.

Canada supposed it was ironic, then, that the cannon fired a moment after he'd finished the thought.

* * *

America scrambled to his feet, and he wasn't the only one. The remaining eight tributes were looking around wildly, counting heads, confused. No one was missing. They were all here, everything was normal, Romano hadn't even stopped his shouting-

"_Fratello!" _Italy cried, jumping towards his brother only to be caught around the middle by Germany.

They watched, frozen, as Romano continued to throttle Spain, who had long since stopped fighting back.

"He's broken his neck." Russia said quietly, as if they hadn't noticed.

"Lovi! Romano! Stop!" Italy tried again, prying at Germany's fingers to free himself. Romano didn't seem to hear him. America noticed a faint yellow foam at the corner of his mouth.

"I think…he's gone mad." America said slowly.

"Really, idiot?" Prussia called angrily. "Do you think _that's_ why he's starting murdering people?"

America didn't have the energy or comeback to respond. He tentatively took a step forward.

"Hey, man, calm down." he called gently, as if he were talking to a rabid dog. "He…he's dead now…"

Romano immediately dropped Spain and turned on him. America had time to blink before he was being wrestled to the ground by someone half his size. He pushed Romano away before he got a good grasp on him and stumbled back warily.

Russia and Germany tried to help him, pinning Romano's arms down by his sides. He struggled furiously, completely deaf to anything they tried to say. America wiped his nose as a fist slammed into it, sending blood pouring down over his lips.

"Someone go get…ropes, or something." America said thickly. Russia nodded once and disappeared, back towards the Cornucopia, where America had a feeling he'd been hording what remained. He and Germany held Romano's arms down, but he was still fighting both of them with more strength that America had even been aware he had. Last fucking time he underestimated Italians, that much was for sure.

His hand, still wet with his own blood, slipped. Immediately, Romano turned on him, hitting him so hard upside the head he stumbled back several feet, falling to his knees, stunned. He clasped his head, trying to blink away the stars to he could see.

There was a sickening crunch and a lot of yelling, though America had a hard time making any of it out. And then, suddenly, a scream, something inhuman, animal. He finally managed to clear his head and stood hurriedly, trying to figure out what had happened.

The cannon fired and Romano dropped to the ground, neck bleeding out onto the grass. Standing over him, holding a bloodied knife, was Italy.

No one moved. It was like they'd all been frozen in place, watching Italy's eyes widen, panting as if he'd just run clear across the arena, and a moment later, that's just what he did, dropping the knife and darting towards the burnt forest, disappearing within seconds.

"Italy, wait!" Germany called, running after him. "You'll hurt yourself!"

In a moment both of them were gone. America wiped his bleeding nose across his sleeve trying to register what had just happened.

"There is a dart." Russia said quietly, breaking the shocked silence. He was crouched over Romano, twisting his ruined neck to show them what he'd found. Sure enough, lodged just under his ear, partially hidden by his hair, was a yellow dart.

"Looks like the things they use to tranquilize big animals. Like lions and stuff." America said, because it was the first thing to come to mind.

"I assume this was more of a stimulant than a sedative." Russia said somewhat dryly. "You were right, America. He went mad. Not for the reasons we assumed, however. It seems Panem has more tricks waiting for us."

"Shit, and West just ran off into the forest of death and everything." Prussia said quietly, running a hand through his hair.

"What happened?" America asked, still trying to put together all the pieces. He must have been out for longer than he'd thought…

"Romano got a hold on Germany and snapped his wrist." Hungary said, rubbing her own absently. "And Italy just…jumped at him and…"

They looked at the body on the ground. There was really no need to finish the thought. Russia let Romano's head fall back on the patchy grass, wiping his blood off on his pants. Prussia leaned over Spain.

"I…never really got to say anything to him." he said, fingers frozen in their path through his filthy hair. "I was…I meant to. We were…good pals and everything, back before…I kinda hoped we could…you know, reconcile. Not the same without France, but still…"

America shoved his hands in his pockets and found the slip of paper still there, forgotten in the face of recent events. He pulled it free and stared at it again, the crumpled red letters.

_Mathew_.

Was it a threat? Or was Panem telling him what had already happened?

* * *

Dead branches struck his arms, held out in front of him in an effort to stop his face and chest from being battered. He felt bruises rising under his jacket and tears welled in his eyes, not aided by the ash still swirling around him.

What had he _done?_ He'd killed his brother…his only brother. He'd thought he was _dead_ until a few weeks ago, and now…

Now he'd killed his brother. Italy tore through the forest without paying the slightest bit of attention to where he was going. What was left out here? All the tributes were behind him, probably angry with him. How _could_ he?

But Romano had been angry…Not just angry, crazy. Mad. Insane. He'd…he'd hurt Germany. He would have killed Germany, like he killed Spain, like he would have killed _him_… He had to stop him. He had to stop him hurting Germany more!

But…he was his brother. Could he do that? Could he choose Germany over his own brother? He didn't know anymore. His hands were sticky and red with drying blood. He felt sick to his stomach and had the sudden desire to clean them. He stopped at last, looking around, hoping to find a pool of water, at the least. Wasn't something around here?

Where was he? The forest had stopped looking burnt a while ago, though he hadn't noticed. It was lush and green and in the distance and…were those _hooves?_ Italy thought about going farther to look, but he still wanted to clean his hands. Everything was so green here…there had to be water somewhere.

It didn't take him long to find it. A little stream, hardly a foot across and maybe three inches deep, but it was enough for what he needed. He knelt hurriedly, eager to wash the blood from his hands.

His knees hit the edge of the water and he screamed.

* * *

Germany rubbed his swollen wrist, muttering to himself. First Romano, now Italy…Italians were going to be the death of him. And it was looking more likely by the second, really. He should have done something about his shattered wrist before running off after Italy but who knew what was out here? It wasn't like Italy was really capable of taking care of himself.

And he was lost. Perfect. This was exactly what he wanted to be doing right now. He scowled and turned on the spot, trying to find something that looked familiar. Maybe he should just go back and wait…

He turned sharply when he heard Italy scream. He was close, somewhere, but where? He picked a direction that seemed most likely and took it, racing through the undergrowth, ignoring the leaves and branches that scratched his face and arms.

He finally found him, slumped the ground by a trickle of water, arms pulled tight over his head. Germany knelt down next to him, pulling anxiously at his locked fingers.

"Italy? Italy, it's me-"

"Go away!" Italy sobbed. Germany hesitated, because he'd never once heard Italy tell him that, but he could already smell blood, and that concerned him.

"What's wrong?" he pressed, trying to peel his arms back one-handedly. Italy kept them firmly over his face, blocking it from sight. "What'd you do? Are you hurt?"

"Don't look at me." Italy whimpered, shaking now.

"What are you talking about?" Germany demanded, exasperated now. "Just let me see what you-"

He finally pulled Italy's arms back and revealed his face. His stomach churned uneasily.

His skin was mottled and red, or…what was left of it was.

"Acid." Italy gasped. "Th..the water. It's…acid."

Germany examined his hands now, though they weren't as bad. His knees, too, were bloodied, but the worst seemed to be his face.

"What happened?" Germany asked him gently, pulling him upright. He clasped his shirt and clung there, shivering like a wet cat. Germany could see now that the damage was only on the right side of his face.

"Th…the water." Italy gasped. He swallowed and tried again. "I…it hurt when I…when I touched it and…and it scared me and…and I lost my balance…"

Germany examined his face again, biting back the rising nausea and trying to see what he'd done. It didn't seem…_too_ bad. Nothing was really exposed…It just seemed like some of his skin had been burned away. Italy buried the good side of his face in Germany's shirt, shaking. Germany patted his hair awkwardly, trying to decide how best to get him back towards the Cornucopia. He could probably avoid his wrist and carry him with his good arm…

"Germany?"

He looked down. Italy was watching him, or, rather, his good eye was watching him. The other was swollen shut.

"Y…yes?"

In response, Italy kissed him.

And then he promptly fainted.

* * *

**AND THAT WAS ON NATIONAL TELEVISION, GERMANY.**

**I've been trying to get here for a while. AND YET ANOTHER ONE GOES DOWN. But at least Matt's okay...probably.**

**Again, sorry for vanishing...I'm just...not reliable...**

* * *

**Hey guys, this is a shout out to ANYONE ANYWHERE THAT THINKS I DON'T EPICALLY FAIL AS A WRITER EVER. Otherwise, feel free to continue down and flame my face off. That is all.**

**NaNoWriMo is coming up (but you probably haven't heard of it *puts on hipster glasses*). For those of you **_**not**_** 'in the know', NaNoWriMo is the National Novel Writing Month, otherwise known as November, in which authors the nation over ('the nation' being the US, I always forget I have readers in weird places like Canada. Do they have NaNoWriMo in Canada? Nevermind, I'm off-topic again.(EDIT: Yes. They do.)) attempt to write a 50,000 word novel beginning November 1 and ending November 30. Apparently most people have lives and thus this is a challenge.**

**Because I'm a lazy ass-hat, I will probably not be participating in the actual NaNoWriMo (because I haven't had original inspiration in like, forever and a half). I WILL, HOWEVER, be attempting a fanfiction-based version.**

**MY GOAL: To upload an APH story by the end of November that is 50,000 words long, in four chapters of 12,500 words (that's one per week, for those of you like me who have trouble associating the number four with the number of weeks in one month.). AND ALSO MY GOAL: To make it based entirely on suggestions BY YOU. BECAUSE I LOVE YOU DEARLY. That means pairings (I see you jumping excitedly, Alfred/Gilbert fans), plot points, historical allusions, and general silliness, among other things. It will be a great collage of ridiculous AND YOU WILL HELP WHETHER YOU WANT TO OR NOT.**

**This AN is already starting to get way too long, so for further details (and maybe a forum…because the feature is there and I WILL ABUSE IT IF I WANT TO.) check my profile. **


	23. Six and a Half Left

**Yeah, yeah, sudden unexpected hiatus was sudden and unexpected, I'm sorry. School. Blame school.**

**Anyway, I FINALLY got SOMETHING done, and it's not that long to be honest, but I feel like I owe you guys something for your patience. I swear I'll be working on the next chapter asap. There's a three day weekend coming up and I'll work on it then.**

**Also, now I have a blog. Where I will tell you when my stories will suddenly drop off the face of the earth. And it has an e-mail alert feature. It just e-mails you whenever I whine about how you guys expect consistency and logic and Alfred/Gilbert.**

**W/E different story if you don't get that last one you probably don't want to. Anyway, go check THAT out, link's on the profile (at the very top, plus it's like the easiest thing to remember ever, it's just like rinacath dot blogspot dot com. Easy. As. Balls.)**

**OKAY GO READ THIS SUPER SHORT CHAPTER WHERE SOMEONE PROBABLY KICKS THE PROVERBIAL BUCKET. MAYBE IT'S AN ACTUAL BUCKET. YOU DON'T KNOW.**

* * *

There wasn't much to do. America gently ran his hands over Romano's clothes, checking for anything valuable. It felt so wrong, to be stealing from the dead, but lives depended on it. And he couldn't put it past Romano to hide something valuable on him.

There was a little of the food from the basket, and a knife he'd taken from the Cornucopia. America set them both aside in the grass as Prussia dug through Spain's pockets. He finished patting Romano down and pretended he didn't see Prussia wipe his nose on his sleeve. He adjusted Romano's arms, because it wasn't right to just leave him sprawled in the grass for the hovercraft.

"They should be together." Prussia said. America could hear something off about his voice, but he wouldn't look up, so he couldn't tell if he was crying or just disgusted with what he was doing.

"What?"

"Both of them. Lay them out together. They would've wanted it like that."

America nodded and shifted Romano closer, until his head lolled to the side and fell onto Spain's shoulder. They could be sleeping, but for Romano's ruined neck and Spain's bruised windpipe. America rubbed the stickiness of blood off onto the grass, wishing there was more he could do. He didn't want to send one of his own off without a proper farewell. It didn't matter if they'd never been close friends. A soldier stood by his troop mates, and a nation stood by his peers. They were in this together, and they'd see their fallen members off with dignity.

"Here." Russia said quietly. America turned, and, somewhat in shock, took the woolen scarf he handed him. "Wrap it around their necks, yes?"

America nodded and did as he said, covering the blood and bruises. He and Prussia finally stepped back. There was nothing left to do.

They could be sleeping. Peacefully sprawled out in the clearing, surrounded by the buds of flowers Italy had so eagerly pointed out just hours ago.

They stood by and watched as the hovercraft came, and America was glad to see them go together. He didn't think he'd be able to take it seeing they lift first one, then the other. Prussia was right. They deserved to go together.

It wasn't long before Germany and Italy came back, and no one was much surprised to see the latter limp in Germany's arms. Perhaps it was the shock that kept their faces blank as Germany finally set him down and showed them the damage, as he explained not to trust the water. They'd seen fire and monsters and all of Panem's tricks, had wounded each other, but none of them had really thought that they'd die at one-another's hands. But this made it so real. If there was just one winner. If only one of them could make it out of this arena alive.

The rest would die. And what if it came down to friends? America looked them over. Beside the Cornucopia, Germany, Prussia, and Hungary all crowded around Italy, trying to use what little medicines they had left to treat Italy's mutilated face. If it came down between any of them, really. And what if America had to choose to fight them? To fight Russia? His clenched fists suddenly felt so heavy, like lead had been poured into the tips of his gloves.

He couldn't. He couldn't hurt any of them. He'd fought all of them before, but that had been war. That had been…different. He had tried to hurt them then. He couldn't kill one of them. He remembered the stomach-twisting horror he felt when he'd first realized what his bomb had done to Japan. That bone-jerking fear that he'd killed one of his own kind. He almost had.

_Never again._ he promised himself. _Not ever. I'll fight for them with my last breath. For all of them. We'll get out of this together. What's left of us._

He shoved his hands in his pockets, taking a few steps away from the Cornucopia and grass still stained with blood. Something crinkled and he pulled it out.

_Mathew_.

He'd promised he'd come home, hadn't he? He'd promised he wouldn't get hurt.

He stormed away in frustration, towards the forest. No one paid him much attention, and he had no intention of running very far anyway. What was the right answer? He couldn't hurt his brother, not when he was all that he had left, but he couldn't betray those still in the game. Could he get them all out alive? But if he did, Panem would hurt Canada.

He shouted out and punched one of the trees blackened by the fire. It exploded into a shower of ash, reminding him of his exploded punching bag and his score. England never had told him how he'd gotten his high score. Had he shown them some talent America had never seen? Impressed them with his swordsmanship, or maybe his knife-throwing? Or had he done something to terrify the judges, something that made them want to give him a score that would guarantee his death in the arena, would paint a target on his back?

America would never know. He'd never know anything. He was just a stupid kid and without his country that's all he would ever be. Just a stupid kid with more muscle than brains who would never be a hero, not ever, because he'd already failed everyone who mattered. England was dead and Canada was trapped in the clutches of a man who would probably kill him no matter what America did about it, and he could do nothing but stand here and play Hollywood for Panem's pets until he either died or succumbed. He was useless. He was _nothing_.

Something snapped. The trees were nothing but powder, couldn't stand up to his blows. They crumpled before he'd properly expressed his rage, muscles burning with the need to crush something, to destroy it, to take this land, _his _land, land Panem had taken and bastardized, and turn it to ash and cinders. How he wanted _blood_.

The others had disappeared. He didn't know where to, and he didn't care. It was probably for the best. He tore across the clearing, eyes set on his prize, the one thing in this arena that would stand up to his unreasonable strength. His fingers bent the edges of the Cornucopia and he tore up, prying it from the ground. It was wedged in with concrete, intended to stand the test of nature and Panem's tricks, but no one had planned on America. No one had carefully plotted out how to prevent _him_ from destroying Panem's little monument.

The bronze tore so easy, like it was tissue paper. The tip of the horn peeled away like torn fabric, and in one easy, slick movement, he threw the ruined Cornucopia across the arena like a discus. It spun unevenly, like a badly-thrown football, and he watched it, muscles throbbing from the effort.

It took a moment to land. There was a sound a lot like a wave during a thunderstorm, and, with a spray of water, the Cornucopia disappeared.

America glared after it, panting, suddenly exhausted. All the rage and uselessness and fury had bleed out, and now he just felt…tired. Like he really was three hundred years old. Like his bones were brittle and skin papery.

The others watched in silence as he sat down beside the ruined stump that had been the Cornucopia, breath shaking, and the anthem played as the sun went down.

* * *

Canada watched the whole thing blankly, as if someone had removed his heart when they'd fixed the new bullet hole in him.

Perhaps he should feel guilty that his only thought was that America had a better chance now, but he couldn't. Was it his fault? Had he signed their lives away when he'd made his promise to Panem? But he'd broken that promise. Maybe the poison had been meant for America.

But Panem didn't need poison. He had the chip. Or had he been bluffing? Then again, why would he need to bluff?

Canada sighed and stood again, tired of watching his brother's temper tantrum. He went back to the window, glaring down at the citizens, willing to make them notice him. To make them realize what he'd warned them. To make them understand.

He lashed out at the window in frustration. His fists bounced back as if it was concrete, but something caught his eye. He looked around and took a decorative paperweight (at least, that's what it looked like, though why he'd need a paperweight was an excellent question), and threw it at the window. It didn't shatter, but this time he caught it. The spray of rainbow sparks that spread across the window like spider cracks. He tried again. And again. It bounced back at him, leaving the mark of distorted electric colors behind.

It was a screen.

Canada grinned, lips pulling apart into the widest smile he'd had in years. He threw the weight again. And again. And again.

They didn't want him to see what was really going on below in the streets. They wanted to make him think he'd done nothing. That all was well.

Because it wasn't.

* * *

Everything seemed quieter now. The acid, it seemed, had only left a flesh wound on Italy, but it had stolen his excitement. The world seemed much drearier without his voice constantly pointing out the little things that seemed so insignificant.

Since America had destroyed the Cornucopia, they'd taken to sitting inside their tents most of the time. It seemed Panem was taking it slow. There had been no further attacks, or threats, or offerings. The anticipation seemed to be grating down on them more than anything else.

America lay in his tent, listening to the stark absence of crickets. Of any wildlife at all. Was it the fire that had destroyed the sounds of night? Or was that just part of Panem's games?

He rolled over, wishing he could sleep, wishing that the night and the tent and the arena would go away and he could dream about when he was small and England had stood over him and told him nothing could hurt him, nothing at all, so long as he was there.

_Now you're not here, England. _he thought bitterly. _What am I supposed to do?_

Thoughts of England were only making it harder to sleep. He finally fought his way out of his sleeping bag and tore open his tent, intending to spend his time keeping watch if he couldn't do anything more useful.

Russia was already outside, taking his turn. He smiled at America as he appeared, and America snorted, wondering if he should just wander off into the forest instead. Let Panem send his monsters. He was eager for the challenge.

He marched across the clearing, intending to sit by his personal stump, the remains of the Cornucopia he'd destroyed, feet indenting the soft dirt and making an audible stomp with each step.

He froze suddenly. Because that wasn't the sound of dirt squelching under his boot. No, that was a very familiar, very, very unpleasant sound.

That was the sound of a pressure plate clicking down.

He stood perfectly still, hurriedly listing his options. This wasn't the first time he'd been in this situation. War had taught him to keep a level head through panic, something that had saved his life more than once.

He could step off. Just keep running. But he wasn't sure how powerful an explosion this might be, at best he could lose half his foot, at worst it would just take him out and probably Russia too. And even if he did make it, chances were the rest of the explosives were activated again anyway. He'd just be running farther into a minefield.

He could balance it out. He'd done it before. But it was tricky business, and he didn't even have anything to balance it with.

"America?" Russia called, noticing his sudden pause. America swallowed dryly, having come to the end of his very short, rather unpleasant list. He heard Russia stand and held up a hand to stop him.

"Don't." he warned, unevenly balanced, trying to keep his weight steady. "The plates. They're reactivated. It's a minefield out here. Don't come anywhere near here."

"But…" Russia's voice trailed off as he caught on to what America was saying. "Don't move."

"I really wasn't planning on it." America said dryly, watching Russia cautiously pick his way towards him, trying to follow America's footsteps. The grass had grown over the plates that had brought them up into the arena, and judging where the ring of explosives started was difficult. And, knowing Panem, more might have appeared.

"Are you sure it isn't deactivated?" Russia mused, kneeling down next to him, finally. America nodded, trying to catch his balance as he wavered. Russia steadied him.

"Yeah." America said breathlessly. "I heard it. Trust me, I know that sound."

Russia nodded absently. "I believe you…"

"What're you guys making so much noise for?" Prussia complained tiredly, appearing in the mouth of the tent he and Hungary had sequestered for the sake of privacy. America didn't really want to think about why they needed it.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep." Russia said calmly.

"Better, wake everyone up and tell them to get away. Go north, follow the Cornucopia, there was water there." America said breathlessly.

"Would you not be a martyr for a moment?" Russia said impatiently. "Just hold still."

"Well you don't need everyone to die." America snapped, wavering again. "Hah…fucking Panem. This is meant to be a one-hit message anyway. Let Panem have his fun with you like he intended."

Prussia stared at both of them blankly for a moment and then dove back into his tent. America snorted.

"Stop moving." Russia scolded. He straightened, grasping America's elbows to keep him steady. "It's a simple thing. You are lucky. It is designed to go off upon release. Cheaper, more collateral damage, it's probably for the best you hit this one, or it would have been the triggers farther in."

"I feel super lucky." America snorted. "Look, I'll just turn around and make a run for it. You guys all just scatter, alright?"

"Don't be stupid." Russia said calmly. "Just hold still."

"You keep saying that like it's easy." America snapped. "You can't-"

"I've done this before, America."

"All the more reason for Panem to fuck with us."

"What crap did you get yourself into now?" Hungary yawned, stretching as she followed Prussia out of their tent.

"I'll wake up West…" Prussia muttered, disappearing into the massive sectioned tent still guarding their south side. Hungary took a few curious steps closer.

"Careful." Russia warned. Hungary paused, looking between the two of them, and realization caught in her eyes.

"Oh." She stopped where she was. "Do we have something to balance it with?"

"No." Prussia came to stand next to her, wiping his mouth, a bottle of water in his hand. "Nothing that weighs as much as _him_."

The way he said it sent America's already thinned temper raging. "Why don't you be helpful instead of standing there like a fucking useless git?"

"Your British is showing." Prussia said calmly, taking another swig of water. "West'll be up in a minute, he'll help."

He was right, or, half right. Germany appeared a moment later, looking uncharacteristically tired. Italy, unsurprisingly, stayed inside. They collected on the edges of the tents, where it was safe.

"Is he worth saving?"

"Well we have to _try_."

"_Why?_"

"Well he'd do the same for us, right?"

"That doesn't mean it's the smart thing to do-"

"You guys realize I can still hear, right?" America called, aggravated. They stopped abruptly.

"America, if you step off, I can hold down the plate-" Russia offered. America stopped him.

"Yeah, and then what? If someone's gonna get their limbs blown off, I'd rather it be me. I'm the one who stepped on the damn thing."

"True, but that was luck." Russia mused. "But if you listen to me, if I hold it down, it will be easier to set something on top of it."

"Look, that's not going to work." America said angrily. "We don't _have_ anything, and either way, that's really tricky shit. We both know that. The best thing to do is to just pull me off as fast as possible, if you really want to help. I'm still for the jumping idea."

"Fine." Russia said curtly. "We'll do it your way. Prussia, come help me."

"I'm not going near you plus bombs." Prussia said indignantly. "My fucking shoulder still hurts!"

"I did apologize for that-"

"So? Put the bit of my shoulder back on and we'll fucking talk!"

"Fine." Russia sighed impatiently. "One of you, come help me."

"I'll do it." Hungary said, ignoring Prussia's protests. "You and Germany, go take Italy somewhere else, just in case."

"Follow the Cornucopia." America called, repeating his earlier advice.

Prussia muttered something and followed Germany back into their tent. Hungary carefully followed America's indented footprints in the grass towards them.

"Quite the mess you've gotten yourself into, isn't it?" she sighed.

"Complain later." America grumbled, watching to make sure Germany and Prussia had taken Italy out of the possible blast zone. Not that he could really estimate what that was, knowing Panem.

"Aright, America." Russia said, standing up carefully. "Don't jump. You'll press down on the plate harder. We'll pull you off as fast as we can."

America made a face and held out his arms. "I guess…Can't you get a little farther back? Or do we have rope or something."

"If we did, it was in the Cornucopia you chucked." Hungary said brightly, taking hold of America's right arm and bracing herself. Russia took his left.

"On the count of three, then?"

America nodded, gritting his teeth. If the explosion hadn't changed, neither of them should be hurt. If they pulled him fast enough, neither should he.

"One…"

At worst, he was dead, right? Or would it be worse if his leg was torn off? He'd be nothing but a useless burden then…

"Two…"

Could he survive that? Was it worth trying to tie it off? Maybe he should just tell them now not to try and save him if he was hurt that badly-

"THREE!" America felt the sudden jerk on his shoulders and fought the urge to pull against it, lest he just end up tugging both of them back onto the plate with him. The rest happened all at once in a blur of dirt and noise.

There was a moment in time when it seemed they'd done it. America came free and the explosion seemed contained. Not nearly the blast he'd feared. The spray didn't even reach the tents. But then reality butt in and there was a ripping sensation somewhere around his ankle. The pain didn't hit until he was sprawled on the ground, ears still ringing.

Russia and Hungary landed a few feet away from him, stunned, but mostly unhurt. America choked back a whimper and pushed himself up, telling himself it was just a flesh wound. His leg refused to acknowledge any order he gave it, so he pulled it closer, trying to see the stump of what had been, a moment ago, his foot.

Blood smeared across the grass, but…no, it wasn't as bad as it felt. His foot was still there, still intact. Well mostly. His boot was ruined, and at least two of his toes were completely gone, as well as a sizable chunk of his foot, but…it would still work, when it healed. If it healed.

"That could've gone better." Hungary muttered, brushing herself off.

"It could've gone worse." Russia pointed out, already on his feet. America couldn't really look away from the mangled remains at the end of his leg. Years of war had increased his pain tolerance, but even for him, this was a little much. His head swam dangerously, threatening to send him flat back on the grass again. Russia loomed over him.

"Help me up." America said finally, determined to stand. Russia hesitated for a moment, but his took the hand America held out, gently pulling him up. His good leg wavered badly and he set the heel of his injured foot on the grass. Pain shot up his spine and his crumpled again. Russia caught him, pulling on his arms as if to pull him onto his back.

"No. I can do it." America said firmly. Or, he intended it to be firm. It came out as more of a croaking whimper.

"Stop slowing us down." Hungary snapped impatiently. "Everything in the arena probably heard that explosion. I didn't survive this far to get eaten by one of Panem's pets."

She shoved him up onto Russia's back and Russia clasped his arms around his neck. He had to be choking him, but if he was, Russia didn't complain. America didn't have the energy to do much but clasp his muddy jacket, which, in all honesty, probably didn't help much. He flickered in and out of consciousness as Russia followed after Germany and Prussia. He wasn't sure when Hungary left to catch up with them, but suddenly he was alone with Russia, and probably the most vulnerable he'd been in a long time.

"Looks like we're the only ones not paired up, huh?" America mumbled, hoping that he was making as much sense as he thought.

"Hmm?"

"Well Prussia and Hungary are probably conspiring their tragic ending right now, and I think we all saw Germany and Italy coming, didn't we?"

Russia chuckled. "Are you implying something?"

"I'm not sure what I'm even saying anymore." America replied honestly, and, at last, slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

**Ohey no one died. What a change of pace.**

**Two people got giant-ass wounds though. Well, technically Italy was wounded last chapter, but whatevs. They're all in mostly one piece. You know. The survivors, anyway.**

**So, anyone think they're all gonna make it? Some of them? What if it comes down between a couple? And did you smell some Russia/America in the air?**

**THE POLLS HAVE BEEN TALLIED AND YOUR VOTES SHOW…**

**Belarus: 1 It's probably for the best you died first**

**Italy: 33**

**Switzerland: 11**

**Liechtenstein: 30**

**Russia: 28**

**Prussia: 41 Winning**

**Hungary: 13**

**Japan: 14**

**Germany: 23**

**England: 28**

**Spain: 20**

**Denmark: 12**

**Romano: 26**

**America: 38 Second place. Main character, still came in second.**

**Well the message I see there is... "Kill Prussia and I'll cut you."**

**Well I'll promise you this much: Someone is sooooo dying next chapter. LATER, LOVELIES! AND CHECK OUT THAT BLOG THING! :D**


	24. The End

**Remember how I said someone's totally dying this chapter?**

**I wasn't lying. Why do you look so tense...?**

**I feel like this chapter moves way too fast, but I figure I've kept you all in the dark long enough. Plus, I had a lot of this written already from months ago. Go past me.**

* * *

America was hurt, but what did that matter? Canada hefted his paperweight and stared at the pseudo-window. It was just a scratch. He would live.

Electric colors shaded the picture of a peaceful city with lies. Not true, they sang. Not true, just an illusion. Some had begun to embed themselves in the image, leaving it frayed. Again, again, he threw the weight, smashed it against the screen, to know it wasn't real, to know it was a lie.

The silence echoed around him. What was it like down in the streets? Was it loud? Did it ring with revolution?

The screen exploded with colors. Canada bent down to pick up the weight and something caught his eye. He straightened again, looking at the window. The ruined cells shone with florescent colors, but…there, in the middle…something else. He squinted through his cracked glasses and took a step closer. It seemed off, somehow, mismatched…

Something...different. Almost as if…daylight shone through.

Canada's eyes widened. He pummeled the window with renewed excitement, watching the world come into view under his incessant fists.

* * *

Prussia rubbed his shoulder and glanced warily back at Russia, unnerved with having him so close behind him.

"Relax." Hungary muttered, nudging him playfully. "He's not going to do anything. He's too busy babying America."

Prussia snorted and didn't answer, still feeling the rather sore impression Russia had left in him. Ahead of them, Italy was on his own feet again, walking close to Germany quietly. Prussia hoped he felt better soon. The arena seemed twice as dreary without him to liven it up.

They were hiking up through one of the unmarred forests now. The heavy sound of panting was accompanied, for once, by the soft murmurings of native wildlife. It was so easy to let his guard down, with the rest of the tributes dead and the forest so full of life, but he knew better. It was times like this, when the viewers were starting to get bored, that Panem most liked to tease them.

They reached the top of the incline and, with a sigh of relief, found the Cornucopia – and promised water – at the foot of the hill. Italy grabbed Germany's hand, and, in a sudden attempt to be as cheerful as he used to be, took off down the hill towards the water.

"Come on, Germany, we're almost there!"

"Careful!" Prussia called after them, watching his brother, grinning.

There was no noise. No motion, no tremor, nothing to suggest that, as Italy pulled Germany down the hill, a hole might open up and swallow them both. There was an instant of shock, and then Prussia was running after them, throwing himself down on the edge of the bottomless pitfall. He grabbed the ends of Germany's fingers and latched onto his wrist, shoulder burning.

"Germany, come on, climb up." Prussia panted, trying to get a better grip as sweat made his fingers slip.

Germany shook his head, eyes wide. "No, Italy…He's still down there, I have to…to help-"

"West, he's dead!" Prussia shouted. "You can't help him!"

"No." Germany pulled against him. "He's alive! He's hurt! Let go, I have to help him!"

The sound of the canon startled Prussia and his grip relaxed for a split second. Germany slipped an inch lower.

"You see? There's nothing you can do!" Prussia cried desperately.

"No!" Germany shouted. "No, I can't, I promised, I'd…I'd-"

"It doesn't matter!" Prussia scrabbled for a better hold. "West, you can't help, don't make me watch you die again!"

"I'm sorry, Prussia." Germany whispered. "You were a good brother. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Prussia opened his mouth to respond, to tell him that he was a shit brother for letting anything happen to him, for letting any of this happen, but that was all cut off by a sudden cry of pain and shock as the knife hidden on Germany's belt jabbed through his wrist. His hand released, unable to withstand the strain anymore, and Germany disappeared almost instantly, the only noise accompanying his fall the bang of a canon going off.

"Germany!" Prussia screamed after him, reaching down, thinking if he could just reach farther, see farther, maybe…maybe…

"Prussia, stop!" Hungary pulled him back onto solid ground.

"NO!" Prussia struggled blindly against her, but the jagged hole in his wrist made him weak and she overpowered him, pulling him back towards relative safety. "No, stop…"

"He's dead." she said harshly. "He's dead and you're not going to change that."

"Stop…" Prussia moaned, pressing his hands to his aching head, feeling blood mingle with sweat and tears on its determined path down his face. He curled in on himself, sitting with his head buried behind his knees, hands clasped together to keep him from falling apart.

There was a moment of silence when no one said anything. They just watched him sob to himself. Once that might have bothered him.

Hungary set her arm on his shoulders but he jerked away from her touch. He heard her settle next to him, waiting for him to pull himself together.

The anthem made him jump, but he refused to unfurl. He didn't want to see Germany's face in the sky, or Italy's for that matter.

He felt like he should blame Italy for Germany's death and found that he couldn't.

Hungary tugged gently at his injured hand and he surrendered it to her, still curled together. Light from the announcements shone through the new gap, and Prussia imaged he could see a hint of yellow blond and a glimmer of blue.

Hungary gently cleaned the new knife wound on his wrist. Prussia was indifferent to it. It was just one more to add to the growing list. His body hadn't felt this sore in centuries.

The light from the announcements faded but did not disappear entirely.

"Good afternoon tributes." came Panem's voice. Apparently he felt this year's games were important enough to speak himself. "I have an announcement for you all."

There was a moment of baited breath as they waited to learn what new horrors were in store for them.

"A feast has been planned for tomorrow morning." Panem's voice continued, despite Prussia's growing disinterest. "But there is…a little twist. You see, at this moment the chips in your arms are releasing a fatal dose of a lovely cocktail of viruses concocted for each of you specially. You should begin feeling the effects shortly. By tomorrow at this time, it will have killed every one of you."

There were noises of fear and shock from behind him.

"Do not panic just yet. You should know there is an antivirus. Tomorrow morning, three backpacks will be placed at the Cornucopia, one per district." Panem's voice rang out through the arena. "Good luck… nations."

Hungary finished wrapping Prussia's bloodied hand and he pulled it out of her slacked grip to continue his silent mourning.

"Prussia?"

He ignored her.

She set her arm over his shoulders again and this time he didn't have the energy to shake it off. "Prussia?" she asked more quietly.

He set his bruised chin on his knees, freeing his uninjured hand to stroke the Iron Cross settled around his neck. Blood smudged the smooth surface, tinting the silver gray with hints of red and brown. The lump on his arm where they'd injected his chip itched suddenly but he refused to scratch it.

He could hear the America and Russia talking quietly in the background, deciding what to do about this latest predicament.

Hungary apparently gave up on getting him to respond and simply sat with him, arm wrapped around his shoulders, knowing he wanted to be left alone, knowing he was terrified to be alone. The steady, numb ache worked its way up from his arm and he knew the virus was spreading his system, doing whatever disgusting thing viruses did to kill people.

He was rubbing his cross too hard. The edge bit into his thumb and he felt a new cut open up, spilling more blood onto the necklace. Hungary sighed quietly beside him, resting her head against his shoulder.

At least he didn't have to worry about who he was dying for anymore.

* * *

"Don't be stupid. You're not going alone."

"America, do you really think you're in any condition to be anything but a hindrance?"

"Yes." America said stubbornly, testing his recently injured foot. It wavered violently under him and he shifted his weight back onto Russia's shoulder. "I should come."

"No." Russia said firmly, setting him on the ground. "One person is more than enough for four vials."

"Panem must have something planned." America protested. "This isn't his whole plan. We just _made_ the trip to the Cornucopia. He knows we can do it. Maybe the virus makes you go crazy or something. You need me."

"No." Russia said. "I don't. You'll stay here."

America crossed his arms furiously. "And what makes you think I won't follow you?"

"Physical inability." Russia said simply, slipping his emptied backpack back up onto his shoulder. "I will be back before the sun is up. Try and rest, da?"

America snorted and frowned angrily at the lake beside them.

* * *

Hungary was stroking his hair. That's all he really wanted to think about. Hungary's fingers working through the dirty, matted hairs that had grown past the bottoms of his ears by now. The air was cold – it was always cold here. It reminded him of times he usually liked to forget. But now they were preferable to more recent memories.

Despite the thick jacket he was wearing, despite Hungary's continued presence, despite the burning ache in his shoulder, he was freezing. The cold came at him from two directions, the frigid air, and the slow, building ache in his chest. It felt like he'd swallowed ice. As he looked up at Hungary's tried and battered face, memorizing it, he wondered why anger was so hot yet grief was so cold, and if to be any kind of normal temperature one had to feel both at once.

Hungary caught him staring and smiled. He liked the way it crept up her face to her eyes. Hungary never faked a smile. She wasn't a stupid girl who locked her emotions away and let them explode all at once. She let him know what she thought. If it wasn't for…well the obvious, Prussia wouldn't even think of her as a girl. Not surprising, everything considered.

But…damn if she didn't look like a girl now. Not a girl, really. A woman. She was perfect. She caught eyes at every world conference. Even humans could see it, the men that flirted with her in bars, the girls that looked at her with hate and jealousy…

She was perfect. In every way.

And he was terrified that he was going to lose her.

* * *

Russia had no trouble cross the arena again. He made it to the remains of the Cornucopia before the sun had rose, unburdened by America or any of the others. The crisp night air dug into his jacket and he smiled faintly, reminded of home. How long had it been since he'd seen it? Had it really been a century. Perhaps soon…he could return.

The table and vials were already there, waiting for him, raised on a platform similar to those surrounding the remains of the Cornucopia.

Russia paused cautiously, wondering at the ease. Surely Panem was not only relying on the explosives still buried below the surface to protect these vials?

He didn't have much choice. He shrugged and cautiously picked his way through the minefield, tossing rocks ahead of him to guide his way through the explosives. He approached the vials, expecting something, anything to happen at any moment, expecting the vials to disappear at any moment. Was he delusional from the virus? He didn't think so...

He couldn't afford to waste time. He hesitated a moment and closed the gap between him and the table.

Nothing happened. He pulled open the backpack and reached for the first vial, but something stopped him.

He blinked and counted again. No. Something was wrong. Maybe he was delusional.

There were only three vials.

He picked up the first vial. A number four was etched and died into the smooth glass surface. That was his. He dropped it into the backpack and reached for the next one, somewhat relieved. His fingers had a difficult time closing around the next vial. Five. He set the vial in the backpack and reached for the next vial.

Twelve.

He breathed a sigh of relief. That was all of them, wasn't it?

But, then, who was missing? He ran through the numbers again. Four, that was him, five, that was Prussia and Hungary and…

He paused. He looked through the vials in his backpack quickly to confirm it. There was no denying those black numbers. One four, one five, one twelve. One for each district.

But Hungary and Prussia were from the same district.

He searched the table, looking to see if he'd missed another vial, but, no. There were three vials. This was it.

And the lack of danger became obvious. Why would Panem bother with traps and barricades when he wanted these vials to be found? Why bother blowing them to pieces when he could make them decide who would die amongst themselves?

He felt a sudden rush of disgust and pity. Even he found Panem's tricks a bit too much to stomach.

To eliminate any future problem, he pulled the syringe from the vial labeled with a four and drained the entire contents of the vial into it. He jabbed it into the elbow of the arm that bore the chip and pushed the plunger down. He winced at the burn and for a moment he felt a gut-wrenching fear and anxiety and he checked the vial.

But no, it was his. And, through the burn, he felt the fever he'd developed since last night start to fade, the ache in his muscles ease a little. It was working. He sighed in relief.

He dropped the syringe and vial to save himself space and wrapped the remaining vials in one of his jackets and shoved the bundle back into the backpack.

Looking out over the circle of explosives, he found the spot he'd crossed at before and carefully picked his way through, pressing the backpack to his chest, trying to keep any potential shock from hitting it. He was hurrying now, and perhaps a bit careless.

His foot hit off. He only just caught his balance but the backpack fell from his arms. He reached to grab for it but it was too late. It hit the ground with a muffled thump.

He winced and waited for the explosion. But nothing happened.

He cursed Panem's sense of humor and snatched the bag, hurrying away from the Cornucopia before checking that none of the remaining vials had broken.

Muttering under his breath, he turned back towards their makeshift camp, wondering how to explain the disturbing message he bore in his arms.

* * *

Prussia had nodded off to sleep. His dreams were thick with grief and fear, but there was hope behind it. Beauty, grace.

Hungary danced through his nightmares, brightening them with her laugh and color. Prussia was aware he was a very monochromatic person, with his pale skin and hair, his black and white flag. It only seemed fair that the girl of his dreams dripped of color.

It was like a twisted version of tracker jacket venom. His dreams played with his worst fears, reliving what had already happened in a million different, darker, bloodier ways. But just when he felt himself breaking, she was there, soothing him, whispering soft words in his ears.

And she would dance away, leaving him calling after her, blinded by the colors of flowers twined in her hair, and it would start again.

When he finally blinked his eyes open, he thought he was just entering another dream. But, no, this Hungary was tired and bruised.

But real. Slightly, unconvinced, he reached up and brushed her cheek. She looked startled, as if she hadn't noticed he was awake yet. His fingers traced the line of a healing cut she'd gotten somewhere in the Games. There was no use keeping track anymore.

She slid her hand around his, pressing it closer to her skin and keeping it still, thumb gently massaging his palm.

"Have a good sleep?" she asked, sounding exhausted.

"No." he said truthfully, looking at their entwined hands.

She sighed. "Of course not."

"You're back!" America shouted suddenly, making Hungary look up and let Prussia's hand slip from hers. Russia removed the backpack from his shoulder.

"Let me see, let me see, did you get them? Did you take one, did it work? What is it, like a shot?" America rambled, pulling at the backpack Russia held.

"Yes. Calm down, before you hurt yourself." Russia said quietly.

"Okay okay. What did you have to do to get them? Fight off another monster? Stab someone? Dismantle a bomb?" America asked excitedly, miming stabbing motions.

"Nothing." Russia said, carefully pulling the vials from the backpack.

"Nothing?" America said, sounding disappointed. "Then how do we know these are the real vials?"

"They work. Mine did at least." Russia assured him, pulling America's from the backpack and handing it to him. "I put it in the same arm as the chip, but I don't know if it really matters."

"Weird virus. I don't even feel sick, really." America said, examining the vial. "Are you sure Panem was telling the truth about it? Maybe this is the real virus."

"I'm sure this is the antivirus." Russia said, handing the near-empty backpack to Hungary, who immediately dug through it.

"Really? Why?" America asked, pulling at the sterile wrappings on the syringe with his teeth.

Hungary was still digging through the backpack.

"Russia…" she said slowly, standing up. Prussia sat up, now lacking his pillow.

Russia didn't look at her. He watched America fill his own vial and press the plunger down into his own arm.

"That's all there was."

"There's only one vial in here." Hungary said, growing anger and panic in her voice.

"There's what?" Prussia demanded, scrambling to his feet. He took the backpack from Hungary and dug through it himself.

She was right. There was only one vial in it, a black five marking it as theirs.

Collectively theirs.

"There must have been another vial, something, you just didn't look hard enough!" Hungary shouted at Russia. Prussia continued to search the backpack, but it was useless, really.

"There wasn't." Russia said. "There were four vials. One for each District."

"You're lying! You just want to see us killed!"

"If I wanted that I wouldn't have brought back anything for you." Russia said dryly. "There wasn't anything stopping me from taking them. Panem wanted us to get the vials to make you decide amongst each other who would die."

Prussia filled the syringe with antivirus.

"That's not true, it has to be there, you just…didn't look hard enough, I'll-"

Prussia stuck the filled syringe in her arm and pushed the plunger down before she could make any movement away.

"What-?" she sputtered, looking down at the pinprick in her arm. "Why would you do that?"

"Because you wouldn't." Prussia shrugged, dropping the empty vial and syringe back into the backpack.

"But, now you…" she trailed off, sounding more and more alarmed.

"Oh well. It was going to happen eventually." Prussia said, sitting back down and wrapping his arms around his knees again. "Give Panem a kick in the ass for me."

"No." she said suddenly.

"What?" Prussia asked, turning to look at her.

"No, there's another vial somewhere." She said determinedly.

"I told you there wasn't-" Russia tried.

"There is!" Hungary shouted at him. "Just because you couldn't find it! It's there!"

"Hungary calm down." Prussia told her. "Just come sit here with me."

"No!" she said. "I'm going to find another vial. It's here somewhere."

"But-"

But Hungary was already slinging the backpack over her shoulder and running towards the Cornucopia. Prussia considered going after her but decided it would be best if she got it out of her system alone. She'd come to her senses soon enough.

It was quiet. America and Russia were talking in hushed whispers too faint for him to catch.

The virus was still working its way through his system. Until sunset, Panem had said? Prussia only hoped it wasn't unnecessarily painful. A soft, dull ache pressed on his head, but mostly he just felt tired. Maybe it would just be like falling asleep.

Like he would be so lucky.

"Wait," Russia said suddenly. "She went back towards the Cornucopia?"

"Yah." Prussia said, voice muffled by his knees.

"The bombs, I forgot to say…" Russia said hurriedly. "She doesn't know-"

"What bombs?" Prussia demanded.

"Around the Cornucopia, Panem reactivated them-"

Prussia scrambled to his feet. "What do you mean you forgot to say?" he demanded.

"They weren't activated when I left but-"

But Prussia had already left, running towards the Cornucopia.

* * *

"Hungary!" he called, hoping she wasn't near the Cornucopia, or anything else remotely dangerous. "Hungary!"

The crumpled stump of the Cornucopia caught his eye and he darted toward it, moving as fast as his disintegrating muscles would allow.

Her figure came into shape and he called out again. She was on one of the platforms.

She turned her head towards him, startled. In her surprise, she lost her balance and set her foot down just beyond the platform.

There was split-second when they both just looked at each other.

And the explosion started.

Prussia ducked involuntary, a reflex from too many wars. He was pelted with dirt, working its way into his hair and eyes.

It was over in less than thirty seconds.

"Hungary!" he cried again.

The dust settled and he saw her bloodied form, thrown just a few feet back. He scrambled forward and grabbed her shoulders, dragging her free of any other explosives that might be buried out of sight.

"Hungary…" he whispered, dropping to his knees and brushing the bloody hair out of her eyes. A reverse of this morning, now much darker.

He watched the short, sharp breaths that she took, murmuring quietly to her. Her eyes snapped open suddenly.

"Pru…ssia…"

He didn't answer, just kept smoothing the blood out of her eyes.

"…lo..ve….you…" she gasped.

He bent down and kissed her, tasting the blood and death that filled his mouth.

"I love you too." he whispered. "Wait for me."

She scrabbled at her jacket and forced something into his hand. She watched his eyes as she closed his hand around it, as if making sure he would keep it. Her eyes darted between both of his, as if checking them.

"al..ways…..you…" she murmured quietly. Prussia didn't bother deciphering her broken words, just nodded absently and stroked her face, leaving trails of blood and dirt down her perfect skin.

She sighed contentedly, message passed, and her eyes fluttered closed. For a moment, he wanted to cry out to her, tell her not to go just yet, to stay a moment longer. But there was nothing either of them could do.

Prussia watched her die in his arms.

There was no misery or grief. Mostly just a numb feeling. He wasn't sure if it was the virus or an overdose of traumatizing events, but it didn't matter. He stood, leaving Hungary for Panem.

Something dug into his hand. He opened it to see what Hungary had found important enough to push on him in her last moments. He couldn't help it; he burst into laughter.

Hungary had given him her token, something she'd held onto over the years the same way he'd kept his Iron Cross.

A broken, twisted pair of glasses.

* * *

"Did you-" America cut off when he saw the blood staining Prussia's jacket and hands. He only spared him a glare through red-rimmed eyes before curling in on himself again, now completely alone.

"At least now we might get a moment of peace." Russia muttered, too quietly for Prussia to hear. America looked at him.

"Well nothing's going to happen until he's gone." Russia said, shrugging.

"That's…. kind of…" America trailed off, frowning at him.

Russia shrugged again.

America supposed he was right and settled back on the ground, crossing his arms under his head.

"Do you think there is any chance more than one of us will survive?" Russia said.

"Of course." America said immediately, though, now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure anymore. Their numbers had dwindled to three (it seemed cruel to count Prussia as dead already).

"How, then?" Russia asked.

America opened his mouth to respond faster than he could think of an answer.

"I…"

"Destroy Panem." Prussia said, appearing from between his knees again.

"What…seriously?" America asked, turning his head to look at him.

"Well that's the only way more than one of you is getting out of here alive. I didn't say it was possible." Prussia said.

America thought about that. "If we play along with Panem… we'd have to fight to the death. And I don't know who would win that."

"My money is on the brute." Prussia said.

Russia ignored him. "Do we even want to consider that?"

"Of course not. But…hypothetically…" America said slowly.

"It's not a pretty thought, is it?" Russia mused. "I'd rather not kill you."

"I could totally take you in a fight." America said defensively.

"To be honest, I'm not sure who would win that fight, America."

"The monster with a pipe hidden under his jacket." Prussia called.

America turned to Russia. "You have a pipe hidden under your jacket?"

Russia pause for a moment and shrugged. "The one you used when you fought off the muttation."

"Why did you keep it hidden?" America demanded.

"You're the only one left in the dark." Prussia called.

"What else don't I know about?" America demanded.

"Plenty, I'm sure." Russia said calmly. "But that's not the point."

"What is the point?" America asked.

"What is our next move?" Russia asked.

"Oh." America said. He thought for a moment. "Okay, say we just sat here and refused to do anything."

"Panem would force something to happen and either make us fight each other or kill us off. He just proved he could make us choose amongst ourselves." Russia said.

"I guess… so what's left?"

"What Prussia has kindly pointed out to us." Russia said. "We turn on Panem."

"He'll kill us. Right now." America said.

"Someone has to win." Russia reminded him.

"So?"

Russia shrugged.

"Okay…" America said slowly, looking up again. The sky was starting to turn pink. Was the day really over already? "So… right now… what?"

From the corner of his eye he caught Prussia and Russia exchange a glace over his head.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing." Russia said. "It's nothing."

Prussia laughed.

"What?" America asked again, tilting his head up to look at the lonely nation sitting on his own.

"Nothing at all." he mocked.

"What?" America insisted.

"Well it's just that obviously the only way the two of you are surviving together is for Panem to die, right?" Prussia explained, as if talking to someone very slow.

"Yeah…"

"And Panem is a divided nation, right? The rich and the poor?" Prussia asked, still grinning. America thought he looked a little insane. All things considered, he probably was.

"Yeah…"

"Well, what generally happens when the poor realize how fucked up the current system is?" Prussia asked. "Not that I would know myself, of course." A bitter tone crept into his voice.

"..What?" America asked, lost in Prussia's explanation.

"That's enough." Russia said.

Prussia looked at him curiously. "You aren't even going to ask him."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Fat chance that is." Prussia said. "You think I'm stupid? I've known you well enough to figure out why you're suddenly so eager to protect him." Prussia jerked his thumb at America.

"What are you talking about?" America asked, feeling frustrated.

"America, come on, it's happened so many times, catch on already. Something you've done, something you did remarkably well, actually." Prussia said, sounding exasperated at this point. "One people separating from another…" he trailed off, looking at America expectantly.

And then it clicked. It seemed so obvious America felt stupid for being the last to catch on.

"A revolution." America said slowly. "You..think…a revolution."

Prussia started laughing. Blood trickled down his chin and he threw his head back, laughter escalating to hysteria. His shoulders jerked with the sound as he leaned back on the heels of his hands. Blood now pooled at his neck, marking a thick line that followed the curve of his jaw.

America expected his breath to give out at any moment, but the sound grew louder if anything. America saw his fingers curl into the ground, the blood running down his arms and flowing into the gouges he opened in the earth.

The hysteria grew. And then, suddenly, there was a short, sharp cry and a soft _pop. _Prussia collapsed back, fingers sliding out of the dirt. America found he couldn't look away, even as the cannon announced what he'd already figured out.

"Well that was disturbing." Russia

"Stop it!" America shouted suddenly, scrambling to sit up again.

Russia looked at him blankly. "Stop what?"

"Stop…talking about him like that!" America said angrily. "You just acted like he wasn't even there and then… just treat him with a little respect, would you?"

America wasn't sure why he was so worked up He'd known Russia was cruel. But he'd never really thought he'd have… dismissed something as gruesome as what America had just seen as an annoyance.

"America he's dead, I'm sure he doesn't-"

"Just stop it!" America told him.

Russia stared at him for a moment. "Fine." he shrugged.

America sagged.

"Not that he deserved much better." Russia said in an offhand voice.

"Like you do!" America shouted, furious again. "You were bent on killing all of us until someone stabbed your stupid homicidal sister!"

Russia eyes darkened. America knew that, considering it was Russia, he ought to back off. But he had never been as afraid of Russia as everyone else. And maybe he was just stupid.

"I did not kill anyone." he said darkly.

"No, just maimed them." America spat.

"As I said before, Prussia was in my way."

"You were aiming for Hungary, of course he was in your way!" America had heard Prussia mutter it to himself enough. "Because normal people tend to protect their friends! Like Switzerland-"

"I did not-"

"I don't care who stuck him, I still blame you for his death."

Russia just stared at him for a moment, expression unreadable.

America settled back in the grass, crossing his arms angrily behind his head.

"I'm just saying." America grumbled.

"We don't have the luxury of argument right now." Russia said quietly.

There was a moment when they all fell silent. America found that Prussia's death had brought forth plenty more gruesome scenes. The boy he'd thrown into the Cornucopia, the girl cut in half by England, Romano, crazed by Panem's poison, Spain, his throat torn out, Germany and Italy falling into the pit…

He remember back before the Games, sitting in his room in the Capitol, looking down at Panem's city, thinking that nothing he encountered in the arena could be worse than what he'd already experienced.

He'd never expected to be wrong.

And it hit him, suddenly. He was in the Hunger Games, he was one of the last two people alive. They sat here calmly discussing murder. One of their own had died just a few feet away and just a few minutes later he was already gone from their minds, just a gruesome sight to forget. All of them, only those who had dared to reconnect had felt…anything.

"I just want to stop the bloodshed." America said suddenly.

"What?" Russia asked.

"I thought, somehow, it stopped, a hundred years ago. When I stopped fighting. When we all stopped. The war was over, no one had to keep dying. But… I was wrong, you know? I mean, Panem doesn't care. I used to think he must, that he must understand the value of life, somewhere, because… he has to. But I don't think so anymore. He just…kills people… because he _can_." America trailed off, staring at the first stars of the night. "I just…I want people to stop dying. That's…not really a lot to ask, is it?"

Russia smiled faintly.

* * *

They watched Prussia and Hungary's faces in the sky that night. The arena seemed so cold, so empty. Were they really the only ones left?

America slept close to Russia that night, feeling more alone than he could ever remember being before, listening to the hushed sound of his easy breathing. What would Panem do now? How would he turn them on each other? What did he still have left up his sleeve?

America fell asleep with the uncomfortable thought that he'd forgotten something again.

* * *

The sound of a knife on flesh was very familiar to him. His eyes snapped open, taking in the blood-red edges of the horizon. It was just before sunrise.

He sat up, twisting around, heart thrashing in his chest. His breath caught. God, he was stupid. They'd all been stupid.

Liechtenstein calmly pulled the knife from Russia's back and wiped it on the grass.

"Good morning, America." The cannon fired.

"You."

"Me." She smiled and held up the knife for examination. "Does this look clean to you?"

"…_you_."

"You're repeating yourself." She stood, and America scrambled to his feet unsteadily, reaching for the weapon he didn't have.

"You killed England."

"And Japan." she hummed. "It was so easy, really. He was all alone. He never saw me coming. And England, he almost ran me over, he didn't even expect me to fight back…"

America stared at her as she ran her thumb over the edge of the knife.

"The other tributes were so easy. It was almost a waste to kill them. They would've starved to death soon. Useless." She looked up. "And then there was you. I debated for a while who to kill first, but you're crippled, and I was worried it would take more than one hit to kill Russia." She shrugged. "It didn't."

"How could you-!"

"Hush." she said, shaking her knife at him. "All of you just forgot about me, after Brother died." She frowned. "Belarus didn't kill him, you know. Well, she did, but not fast enough. He was in so much pain. I couldn't help him…You have no idea what it's like, to just watch your brother fade away…I wish I could show you, but you're all alone, aren't you?" Her face darkened. "I finally had to do it myself. I couldn't watch him die like that. Brother deserved better."

"So why is that our fault?" America demanded. "We didn't kill him! It was Belarus – and she's dead now-"

"None of you cared." she hissed. "None of you even missed him. And now…Now I'm going to win this, and I'm going to avenge Brother properly." She nodded. "First you, and then Panem. That's what you want, isn't it? So just be good and don't fight it…"

"You're insane." America said, stumbling back a step.

"I am." Liechtenstein shrugged. She lashed out so suddenly he only barely had time to dodge it. Pain exploded in his shoulder as she dug into it, missing his heart. He wrenched free and collapsed, panting. Liechtenstein loomed over him.

"You're easier to kill than England." She pulled back, taking her time now that he was defenseless. America looked around helplessly, willing himself to remember something, anything that might help him. His fingers brushed the cold edge of Russia's jacket and a flash of recognition hit him.

"Die." Liechtenstein whispered, and the knife came plunging down at his neck.

The pipe tore the knife cleanly from her hands. She shrieked and stumbled back, looking, for a split second, like her old self. America stood unevenly, the pipe Russia had hidden away under his jacket tight in his fist. Liechtenstein clutched her bruised hand, looking up at America with wide eyes.

"I…I'm…" she stumbled back a step. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it! C…can't you-"

"Save it." America growled. He took a shaky step forward, pulling back the pipe, intending to end it all here and now.

He never had to swing. In her fear, Liechtenstein had forgotten that the lake was right behind her. She scrambled a few steps back and screamed as the water lapped at her ankles, crumpling. She vanished into the eerily quiet water.

America froze, staring at the water, dumbfounded, waiting for her to resurface. The cannon went off.

_Acid. The water's acid_. Germany's words of warning echoed in his mind.

Oh.

He stared at the lake, eyes wide, mind struggling to keep up. Finally, he turned back around.

Russia's eyes were open. That didn't seem right to America. They were miles away, unfitting in his childish face. America reached out a shaking hand and slid them closed, skin twitching at the touch.

He stood shakily, feeling every nick and scratch he'd gotten since he'd entered the arena catch up with him. He ached in every way possible, looking down at his old enemy, his old friend.

Something seemed wrong. He couldn't just leave Russia like this. Glancing around, he noticed a straggling clump of yellow daisies, what few petals it still had torn and scraggly. He tore one free of the ground, setting it under Russia's limp hand.

It wasn't a sunflower. He would have liked to leave a sunflower.

But it was better than nothing.

He looked at Russia one last time, before turning away, back toward the ruined Cornucopia, knowing he could never look back.

He felt rather than heard Russia's body lifted from the arena, to be carried away. America wondered vaguely what they would do with it.

A voice boomed out through the arena.

"Congratulations, Alfred Jones, America," Panem's voice sounded. "You have won the one hundredth Hunger Games."

The voice echoed hollowly in America's head. The ladder unfolded to him, waiting for him to grab hold, to lift him from the arena forever.

He took one last look at it, built by Panem, destroyed by Panem. He reached for the ladder, but at the last second paused. Every camera would be trained on him now. There was nowhere else for it to go. No one else to see.

"One day, Panem, you'll pay for everything you've done to us." he said, voice cold. "I pray to God that whoever finally ends you is as cruel and merciless as you are."

He touched the ladder, expecting the cold, paralyzing sweep. He wasn't disappointed. The ladder carried him up into the ship, making the last thing he saw the entire of the wasted arena before he slipped into grateful unconsciousness.

* * *

**And thus ends the hundredth Hunger Games.**

**No, this isn't the last chapter. But this is the end of part one. So my plot outline is now moot. I pretty much ignored it anyway.**

**These are by far my favorite deaths to plot. I've been planning them for **_**months**_**. Ah, it feels good to get them out at last.**

**Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go hide while you plot to kill me. Oh, and yes, I knew all along America would be the only survivor. Sorry~**

**UPDATE: OH LORD THE PLOT HOLES IN THIS CHAPTER. Gosh, I'll fix them later, for now, just...just pretend you can't see them...orz**


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